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APPLETONS'  NEW  HANDY-VOLUME  SERIES. 


VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 


BY 


MRS.  ANNIE   EDWARDES, 

AUTHOR  OF  "ARCHIE  LOYELL,"  "OUGHT  WE  TO  VISIT   HER?' 
"  JBT  :  HEK  FACE  OH  HER  FORTUNE  ?  "  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

549  AND  551   BKOADWAY. 

1880. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  STUDY  OP  EUCLID     .            .            .  .5 

II. — DUTCH  MICHAEL'S  HOUR        .            .            .  17 

III.— A  HYDE  PABK  GODDESS  .            .            .  .37 

IV.-— CHAFF             .  52 

V. — HEINE'S  LOVE-SONGS         .            .            .  .61 

VI. — AT  TWICKENHAM        ....  67 

VII.— BEWARE  !  .            .            .            .            .  .88 

VIII. — PAINT,  PATCHES,  AND  POWDER            .  95 

IX. — A  VILLAGE  MARCHIONESS            .            .  .108 

X. — HERE,  OR  ELSEWHERE              .            .  121 

XI.— A  HEART  .            .            .            .            .  .127 

XII. — FIRST  REHEARSALS      ....  142 

XIII. — LORD  VAUXHALL'S  INVENTION      .            .  .154 

XIV. — IN  SILK  ATTIRE          .            .            .  172 

XV. — THOSE  HORRIBLE  PHOTOGRAPHERS  !          .  .188 

XVI. — LOST  LENORE  .....  201 

XVII.— EFFACED .212 

XVIII.— IM  WALD 228 

XIX.— BEAUTY'S  CROWNING  TRIUMPH    .            .  .240 

XX. — UPON  THE  ARM  OF  A  PRINCE  253 


4388 


VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    STUDY    OF    EUCLID. 

"  HE  loves  me,"  murmurs  Jeanne,  "  a  little — 
not  at  all.  He  loves  me." 

The  sun's  rays,  setting,  translate  the  dusk  ex- 
panses of  the  Schwarzwald  into  gold  ;  they  turn 
to  fire  the  pointed  roofs  and  lozenged  windows 
of  Schloss  Egmont ;  they  kiss  with  softest  bronze 
the  head  of  Jeanne  Dempster,  as  she  stands,  idly 
dreaming  the  dreams  of  seventeen,  in  one  of  the 
rose-shadowed,  weed-grown  terraces  of  the  old 
Schloss  garden. 

A  half -demolished  daisy  is  between  the  little 
maid's  fingers  ;  a  lesson-book,  face  downward, 
lies  on  the  gravel  at  her  feet. 

"  Er  liebt  mich."  Despite  her  English  birth, 
Jeanne  speaks  German  like  a  true  child  of  the 
Wald ;  sweet,  incorrect,  rippling  German,  deli- 


6  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

ciously  unlike  the  classic  Hanoverian  dialect  of 
suburban  boarding-schools.  "Ein  wenig — nicht. 
Er  liebt  mich— " 

"  Deep,  as  usual,  in  Euclid  ! "  says  a  man's 
voice,  close  behind  her  shoulder.  "  Neither  Mam- 
selle  Ange  nor  Fraulein  Jeanne  being  visible,  I  have 
brought  the  implements  of  study  out  of  doors. 
But  I  would  on  no  account  disturb  you.  It  were 
pity  to  break  the  thread  of  mathematical  calcula- 
tion so  profound.  Choose  your  own  time  to  be- 

gin." 

And  depositing  three  or  four  dingy-looking 
schoolbooks,  a  pewter  inkstand,  some  quill  pens, 
and  a  sand-box  upon  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace, 
Jeanne's  master  takes  his  place  on  the  stone  bench 
beside  which  the  girl  is  standing,  and  proceeds 
quietly  to  light  his  nleerschaum. 

"I  don't  know  a  word  more  of  Euclid  than 
when  I  first  began  it,  sir."  As  she  makes  the  con- 
fession, Jeanne  picks  up  her  lesson-book,  Euclid's 
"  Elements,"  from  the  ground.  "  *  Proposition  XV. 
Theorem  :  If  two  straight  lines  cut  one  another, 
the  vertical  or  opposite  angles  shall  be  equal.' 
Then  why  try  to  prove  it  ?  Why  need  we  go  on 
with  these  hideous  angles  and  right  angles  ?  Why 
do  you  insist— yes,  Mr.  Wolf  gang,  insist — on  teach- 
ing me  things  that  have  no  use  and  no  beauty  ?  " 

"  For  the  same  reason  that,  were  I  Mamselle 
Ange,  I  would  insist  upon  your  learning  to  ride 
or  dance,"  says  Wolfgang  coolly ;  "  to  promote 


THE  STUDY  OF  EUCLID.  7 

the  growth  of  muscle — mental  muscle  in  the  case 
of  Euclid.  If  all  girls  were  taught  mathemat- 
ics—" 

"  They  would  turn  out  beings  as  superior  as 
all  men  ?  "  interrupts  Jeanne,  lifting  her  dark  eyes 
to  the  master's  face.  "  The  thought  encourages 
me,  Mr.  Wolfgang.  I  will  try  my  best  to  see  the 
meaning  of  Proposition  XV.,  theorem  and  all,  by 
next  lesson." 

A  smile,  quickly  suppressed,  comes  round  the 
master's  lips. 

"  The  sarcasm,  Miss  Dempster,  is  somewhat 
personal,  considering  that  I  am  the  only  man  of 
education  higher  than  a  woodcutter's  who,  as  yet, 
has  crossed  your  path." 

"The  only  man  higher  than  a  woodcutter? 
Du  lieber,  and  what  kind  of  life  do  you  suppose 
that  we  have  led,  then,  Ange  and  I  ?  We  spend 
a  week  in  Freiburg  every  summer,  sir,  and  we  have 
gone  through  the  Kur  at  Autogast ;  and  once  we 
went  to  Baden-Baden  and  saw  the  Emperor  start 
for  the  Oos  races — four  black  horses  he  had,  and 
outriders.  And  I  was  so  near,  his  Majesty  took  off  * 
his  hat  to  me  !  And  we  went  to  hear  '  Faust '  in 
the  evening,  among  a  crowd  of  princes  and  royal 
dukes  and  Hochwohlgeborens.  Mamselle  Ange 
says  I  shall  be  taken  to  a  ball  at  the  Residenz  next 
year,  and  we  know  old  Baron  von  Katzenellenbo- 
gen  and — and  the  English  chaplain's  son  at  Frei- 
burg," cries  Jeanne,  desperately  seeking  to  swell 


8  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

the  list  of  her  male  acquaintance  by  every  avail- 
able item  that  memory  or  imagination  can  supply. 

"Emperors,  royal  dukes,  Hochwohlgeborens, 
and  the  English  chaplain's  son  at  Freiburg,"  re- 
peats Wolfgang  gravely.  "  I  retract  my  obser- 
vation. Your  experience  of  life  and  of  men  has 
been  vastly  wider  than  I  gave  you  credit  for — 
especially  in  matters  operatic."  He  glances  with 
meaning  at  the  petals  that  strew  the  terrace  pave- 
ment. "You  were  rehearsing  Marguerite's  solil- 
oquy when  I  interrupted  you  just  now — satisfac- 
torily, I  hope  ?  " 

His  tone  is  one  of  banter,  and  the  quick  blood 
springs  to  little  Jeanne's  cheek. 

"  I  was  rehearsing  it,  most  satisfactorily,"  she 
answers,  with  all  the  steadiness  she  has  at  com- 
mand. "'Erliebtmich.'"  Words  that  in  English 
would  scorch  her  lips,  flow  from  them  without 
constraint  in  the  familiar  homeliness  of  German. 
" '  Ein  wenig — nicht.'  I  had  just  got  to  ( Er  liebt 
mich  '  for  the  third  time — think  of  that,  the  third 
time,  Mr.  Wolfgang — when  I  heard  your  voice." 

"  Horrible  disillusionment !  To  bring  you 
still  more  thoroughly  from  pleasant  dreams  to  dis- 
tasteful reality,  and,  as  this  is  the  last  lesson  you 
will  have  for  a  week  to  come,  suppose  we  proceed 
to  serious  work.  You  are  not  in  a  humor  for 
Euclid,  it  seems,  so  I  will  begin  by  correcting 
your  Latin  exercise.  '  Est  finctimus  oritoris 
poeta,' "  opening  the  page  at  which,  with  all  the 


THE  STUDY  OF  EUCLID.  9 

conscientiousness  that  is  in  her,  his  pupil  has  been 
working.  "  *  Oritoris  ! '  An  error  of  the  gravest 
nature  at  starting.  Perhaps  you  will  give  me 
your  attention  while  I  try  once  more  to  ex- 
plain the  use  of  the  dative  case  after  the  ad- 
jective." 

The  "serious  work"  proceeds  upon  its  usual 
pattern.  After  an  hour's  torture  over  Latin  and 
mathematics,  the  master  produces  a  well-used  vol- 
ume from  his  pocket,  and  begins  to  read  aloud. 
Is  not  English  elocution  included  among  the  arts 
which  he  has  engaged  himself  (at  one  mark  seven- 
ty-five pfennigs  the  lesson)  to  teach  ?  The  book 
chosen  to-night  is  Shakespeare,  the  play  "  Twelfth 
Night^'  and  Jeanne,  hopelessly  obtuse  in  the  higher 
sciences,  is  moved  to  sighs,  tears,  laughter,  at  the 
reader's  will.  By  and  by  it  pleases  Wolfgang  to 
hear  such  crude  judgments  as  the  girl  can  offer 
upon  the  play — "  Shakespeare,"  as  he  says,  "  an- 
notated by  Miss  Jeanne  Dempster."  And  then 
they  hazard  a  bold  review  of  it  from  the  stand- 
point of  Teutonic  criticism,  Mr.  Wolfgang's  mem- 
ory supplying  the  text  of  all  the  notablest  trans- 
lations into  German. 

"  An  Englishman  who  does  not  understand  our 
language  can  never  appreciate  Shakespeare,"  he 
observes,  with  intentional  arrogance.  "Hear 
Heine's  rendering  of  'She  never  told  her  love,' 
and  say  if  it  be  not  stronger,  sweeter,  more  musi- 
cal, than  the  original. 


10  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

4 ....  Sie  sagte  ihre  Liebe  nie, 
Und  liess  Verheimlichung,  wie  in  der  Knospe 
Den  Wurro,  an  ihrer  Purpur-wange  nagen.' " 

"No,  it  is  not  sweeter,"  cries  little  Jeanne 
stoutly.  " '  Purpur-wange '  is  hideous,  positively 
hideous,  to  my  ears.  You  pronounce  English  bet- 
ter than  I  do,  sir,  except  the  b's  and  p's.  But,  for 
all  that,  you  are  German  at  heart.  You  have  not 
the  English  instinct  as  I  have." 

"  English  instinct !  Shakespeare  was  only  first 
unearthed,  dug  up  out  of  the  mold  of  British  in- 
difference, by  Lessing.  Without  Wieland,  Her- 
der, Goethe,  what  would  the  world  know  of  Shake- 
speare ?  Why,  this  very  play,  this  character  of 
Viola,  were  never  so  divinely  interpreted  as  in  our 
own  century  by  Heine." 

For  a  minute  or  more  Jeanne  is  silent ;  her 
delicate  grave  face  rapt  in  thought,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cloudlets  of  amethyst  and  gold  that 
float,  like  seraph  heads,  above  the  gradually  dark- 
ening Wald. 

"  In  real  life  Viola  would  be  a  poor  kind  of 
creature,"  she  remarks,  with  an  air  of  conviction. 
"  No  girl  with  a  grain  of  sense  in  her  head  would 
fall  in  love  with  a  man,  duke  or  no  duke,  unless 
he  asked  her  to  marry  him  first." 

"  Exactly  the  criticism  I  should  expect  to  hear 
from  you,"  says  Wolfgang.  "  Girls  of  seventeen 
are  simply  the  most  prosaic,  heartless,  matter-of- 
fact  section  of  humanity.  Talk  of  youthful  im- 


THE  STUDY   OF  EUCLID.  11 

agination,  fine  feeling,  the  age  of  romance  ! — not 
one  woman  in  a  hundred  has  a  spark  of  romance 
belonging  to  her,  under  thirty  !  Why,  Mamselle 
Ange — laugh  at  me  as  you  like,  I  mean  what  I  say 
— Mamselle  Ange  would  be  a  thousand  times  more 
alive  to  the  pathos  of  Viola's  character  than  you 
are." 

"  Remember  the  narrowness  of  my  experience, 
sir.  You  told  me,  a  minute  ago,  that  I  had  never 
known  a  man  better  educated  than  a  woodcutter, 
save  yourself." 

A  just  perceptible  shade  of  red  crosses  Wolf- 
gang's dark  cheek. 

"  That  puts  every  question  of  romance  or  sen- 
timent on  one  side,  does  it  not  ?  But  your  expe- 
rience is  soon  to  be  widened.  Paul  von  Egmont 
and  his  sister,  I  hear,  after  a  dozen  years'  absence, 
have  decided  to  show  their  faces  in  the  Wald 
again." 

It  is  Jeanne's  turn  to  change  color.  From 
temple  to  throat  blushes  mantle  over  the  child's 
pale  skin ;  her  eyes  sink  beneath  Wolfgang's 
questioning  gaze. 

The  master  has  compassion  enough  to  look 
away  from  her.  "  She  loves  me  a  little — not " 
(picking  up  a  flower  that  has  fallen  from  Jeanne's 
hand  and  shredding  it,  petal  from  petal) — "she 
loves  me — not !  "  He  flings  down  the  stalk  with  a 
certain  gesture  of  impatience.  "  What  better  an- 
swer could  be  expected  from  such  an  oracle  !  Do 


12  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

you  know,  Miss  Dempster,  that  the  sun  is  down 
— that  unless  I  wish  you  good-by  this  very  instant, 
I  shall  lose  my  train  ?  " 

"Lose  it,  sir,"  says  little  Jeanne  promptly. 
"  I  invite  you,  in  Mamselle  Ange's  name,  to  drink 
tea  with  us.  Give  up  dust  and  heat  and  engine- 
smoke  for  once,  and  walk  to  Freiburg,  as  every- 
body used  to  do  before  the  railroad  was  made 
across  the  mountains." 

"  The  invitation  is  tempting,  Fraulein  Jeanne. 
On  an  evening  like  this  the  very  sight  of  an  en- 
gine among  our  Black  Forest  valleys  is  an  abomi- 
nation. Still,  I  have  my  evening  class  in  Frei- 
burg, my  good,  studious  lads,  to  whom  work 
means  work !  " 

"And  Euclid,  Euclid.  Let  the  good,  studious 
lads  have  a  holiday,  poor  wretches  !  They  will 
be  none  the  duller  to-morrow,  depend  upon  it." 

"The  philosophy  is  pleasant,  if  not  sound. 
'  Fais  ce  que  tu  aimes,  advienne  que  pourra.'  As 
I  certainly  love  this  garden  better  than  my  hot 
town  lodging,"  says  Wolfgang,  "I  will  risk  put- 
ting it  into  practice." 

He  pauses,  transfers  his  pipe — the  eternal  meer- 
schaum— from  his  lips  to  his  breast-pocket,  and 
with  an  air  half  of  enjoyment,  half  of  regret, 
looks  around  him. 

"Paul  von  Egmont  need  not  have  wandered 
far  a-field  in  search  of  inspiration,"  he  remarks 
presently.  "  Had  the  lad  contented  himself  with 


THE  STUDY  OF  EUCLID.  13 

painting  pictures  of  homely  Schwarzwald  lives, 
of  homely  Schwarzwald  landscapes,  his  work, 
at  least,  might  have  boasted  originality.  In  Rome, 
like  so  many  of  our  German  students,  he  has  be- 
come but  a  pale  copyist  of  greater  artists'  thoughts. 
But  that  is  how  men  miss  their  true  vocation — 
their  true  happiness  also — nineteen  times  out  of 
twenty." 

"Count  Paul  has  missed  happiness,"  says 
Jeanne,  "if  the  village  gossips  say  true.  You 
know  his  story  ?  " 

"  Not  so  well  but  that  it  might  be  good  for  me 
to  hear  you  repeat  it,  little  Jeanne."  The  famil- 
iar epithet  seems  to  escape  unawares  from  Wolf- 
gang's lips.  "I  know  one  version  of  the  story 
only,"  he  adds  hastily — "  not  the  version  given  by 
the  village  gossips." 

"Well,  sir,  before  Count  Paul  was  one-and- 
twenty,  he  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  in  love. 
His  sweetheart  was  a  village  girl  who  had  sat  to 
him  as  a  model — Wendolin  the  miller's  daughter 
Malva." 

Jeanne  raises  her  eyes  to  the  master's  face,  but 
Wolfgang  has  turned  sharply  away  ;  his  arms  are 
folded  across  his  breast.  "  She  was  the  hand- 
somest maiden  of  the  Hollenthal.  You  may  see 
her  portrait,  any  day  you  choose,  just  as  Count 
Paul  painted  her,  in  the  altar-piece  of  St.  Ulrich 
Church.  Some  think,"  says  little  Jeanne,  "  that 
all  her  troubles  sprang  from  that  picture.  No 


14  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

maiden  prospers  in  earthly  love,  you  know,  who 
has  given  her  face  as  a  model  for  the  Holy  Moth- 
er's. But  these  things  are  too  deep  for  me.  Yes, 
she  was  the  handsomest  maiden  of  the  Hollenthal, 
and  the  best — to  this  day>  tears  come  into  the  vil- 
lage people's  eyes  when  they  speak  of  Wendolin's 
Malva — and  young  Count  Paul  was  to  marry  her 
at  Easter.  All  the  Von  Egmonts  at  the  Schloss 
here  were  beside  themselves  with  mortification. 
Such  a  crime  as  a  Von  Egmont  marrying  a  peas- 
ant maiden  was  not  written,  Ange  says,  in  the 
records  of  their  house.  Count  Paul  had  already 
determined  to  be  a  painter  (that  in  itself  was  blow 
enough  to  the  family  pride),  and  was  to  go  to 
Rome  for  the  winter  to  study.  If  Malva  had 
willed,  he  would  have  taken  her  with  him  as  his 
bride,  but  the  maiden  had  self-respect  enough  to 
say  no.  '  I  will  win  the  heart  of  the  Countess  and 
of  her  daughter  yet,'  said  Wendolin's  Malva. 
6  Every  good  woman  is  pitiful.  When  the  gra- 
cious ladies  see  me  alone,  without  Count  Paul, 
when  they  see  how  I  shall  work  and  learn  and  fit 
myself  to  be  his  wife,  they  will  soften  toward  me.' 
"  But  the  gracious  ladies,"  goes  on  little  Jeanne, 
"  never  softened.  When  young-  Count  Paul  had 
been  gone  about  three  months,  they  came  one  day 
in  their  velvets  and  furs  to  Wendolin's  house, 
bringing  with  them  a  letter — a  letter,  so  they  said, 
that  had  just  arrived  from  a  brother  artist  of 
Paul's  in  Rome,  and  that  it  much  behooved  Malva 


THE  STUDY   OF  EUCLID.  15 

to  listen  to.  That  letter  was  the  maiden's  death- 
blow." 

Wolfgang  rises  hastily.  He  crosses  to  the 
farther  side  of  the  terrace  and  stands  there,  his 
back  turned  toward  the  western  after-glow,  his 
face  veiled  in  shadow.  Overhead  the  swifts  are 
circling  with  happy  cries,  athwart  the  sun-colored 
heaven.  A  solitary  thrush  calls  low  from  the 
Wald.  The  garden,  gay  with  such  hardy  flowers 
as  can  stand  the  Black  Forest  climate,  is  at  the 
zenith  of  its  summer  bravery.  A  spirit  of  fresh- 
ness, purity,  peace,  seems  moving,  like  a  visible 
presence,  over  the  fair  and  fragrant  earth. 

"  Finish  the  maiden's  story,"  says  the  master, 
after  a  time.  "  It  has  an  interest  for  me  beyond 
what  you  can  understand.  Tell  me  as  much  as 
you  know  of — of  Malva's  death." 

"  I  know  more  of  her  death  than  of  her  life," 
says  little  Jeanne.  "  Old  Fritzel's  granddaughter, 
blind  Lottchen,  used  to  tell  me  about  it.  To  all 
who  were  sad  or  stricken,  Wendolin's  Malva  was 
good ;  and  often  she  would  have  the  blind  girl 
hold  her  company  for  days  together,  and  talk  to 
her,  when  the  two  were  alone,  of  her  love  and  of 
her  sorrow.  ( Count  Paul  is  going  to  be  a  great 
painter ' — this  ran  through  all  her  thoughts—  '  and' 
he  will  choose  for  himself  a  noble  wife.  It  were 
sin  and  shame,  his  brother  painters  say,  that  he 
should  marry  a  peasant  maiden  because  of  her 
yellow  hair  and  white  throat.  I  should  drag  him 


16  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

down  to  my  level ;  I  should  stand  between  him 
and  his  art ;  I  should  make  him  unhappy  with 
mean  jealousies — I,  who  would  die  to  please  his 
least  wish,  and  think  death  sweet ! '  And  then  she 
would  weep — at  times  blind  Lottchen  could  hear 
her  weeping  quietly  the  whole  night  long — or  she 
would  rise,  when  she  thought  the  rest  of  the  house 
slept,  and  pray  for  Count  Paul  and  for  strength 
to  be  true  to  him." 

"  True  !  "  repeats  Wolfgang,  very  low.  "  Have 
I  not  heard  that  she  wrote  Yon  Egmont  a  letter, 
taking  back  her  plighted  troth,  declaring  that  it 
was  better  that  both  should  marry  in  their  own 
class  of  life?" 

"  That  letter  was  written  under  the  Grafin's  di- 
rection (she  was  Paul's  step-mother,  you  know, 
sir  ;  no  real  mother  would  so  have  risked  her 
son's  happiness).  And  Paul — there,  say  the  peas- 
ant people,  was  his  sin — he  took  the  simple  maid- 
en at  her  word.  Ange  and  the  Frau  Meyer  have 
heard  there  were  other  influences  that  helped 
against  poor  Malva.  Some  say  there  was  a  great 
English  lady  in  Rome,  whose  flattery  drew  the 
young  painter  into  her  train  of  admirers,  and  some 
say  there  was  an  Italian  play-actress,  and  some 
say  there  were  both.  About  all  this  I  know  no- 
thing. Malva  died  ;  her  picture  hangs  where  you 
may  see  it,  over  St.  Ulrich  high  altar,  and  her 
grave  is  in  the  Kirchhof,  beside  the  big  yew. 
The  carved  marble  cross  at  her  head  was  placed 


DUTCH   MICHAEL'S  HOUR.  17 

there  by  Count  Paul's  order.  It  came  from  Mu- 
nich, and  cost  more  gold  than  Malva  had  touched 
in  all  her  life.  But  he  never  troubled  himself  to 
visit  the  spot  ;  he  never  shed  a  tear  over  her 
grave.  Blind  Lottchen  kept  it  fresh  with  flowers 
while  she  lived,  and,  now  that  Lottchen  lies  there 
too,  I  have  planted  pinks  and  rosemary  above 
them  both.  I  will  go  to  the  Kirchhof  with  you 
any  evening  you  choose,  sir." 

"I  have  been  there  already,"  answers  Wolf- 
gang shortly.  "  When  I  came  back  to  the  Wald, 
two  months  ago,  the  first  visit  that  I  paid  was  to 
St.  Ulrich  churchyard." 

"And  you  saw  Malva's  grave?  It  is  a  fine 
marble  cross,  is  it  not  ?  But  the  Wald  people  say 
a  stone-mason's  bill  can  make  poor  amends  for  a 
broken  heart." 

"  Poor  amends,  in  truth  !  "  repeats  Wolfgang, 
with  bitter  emphasis. 

And  then  there  is  silence. 


CHAPTER  II. 

DUTCH  MICHAEL'S  HOUR. 

SILENCE  profound,  yet  fraught  with  inarticu- 
late murmurs,  just  as  the  air  is  haunted  by  im- 
palpable odors,  from  the  adjacent  forest  ;  sweet, 
dewy  silence,  such  as  a  city-wearied  man  might 

2 


18  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

well  travel  a  few  hundred  miles,  now,  in  this  July 
weather,  to  enjoy. 

Schloss  Egmont  lies  in  one  of  the  remoter  val- 
leys of  the  Hollenthal — a  district  curtly  hinted  at 
by  guide-books,  uninvaded  by  the  great  devastat- 
ing army  of  personally-conducted  cockney  sight- 
mongers.  Less  than  two  years  ago  the  older 
people  of  St.  Ulrich  village  had  never  heard  a 
railway-whistle.  No  telegraphic  wires  link  its  in- 
terests with  those  of  the  outer  world.  The  church- 
clock,  set  approximately  right  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings, possesses  an  hour-hand  only.  Do  not  the 
storks  go  and  come  ?  Are  there  not  the  season  of 
resin-gathering,  the  season  of  timber-floating,  the 
rising  and  setting  of  God's  sun  throughout  all  the 
changes  of  the  year  ?  What  need  men  here  with 
such  finikin  apportionments  of  time  as  quarters 
or  minutes  ? 

The  deep  discordance  of  a  far-away  supper-bell 
rouses  Jeanne  and  her  master  from  the  reverie 
into  which  both  have  sunk.  For  fifteen  years  or 
more  that  bell  has  rested  in  idleness  ;  no  need  to 
summon  Mamselle  Ange,  the  housekeeper,  and 
Jeanne,  the  solitary  occupants  of  the  Schloss,  to 
their  homely  meals.  During  the  past  ten  days, 
however,  the  prospect  of  Count  Paul's  return  has 
roused  the  household  into  a  sort  of  galvanized  life. 
Dinner-bells,  calling  no  one  to  dinner,  are  rung  ; 
shutters  are  opened  of  a  morning  and  closed  at 
night ;  Hans  the  gardener  is  learning,  in  a  twenty- 


DUTCH  MICHAEL'S   HOUR.  19 

year-old  livery,  to  wait  at  table  ;  a  flag,  moldily 
displaying  the  Yon  Egmont  quarterings,  floats,  as 
was  its  wont  in  palmier  times,  from  the  topmost 
pepper-pot  turret  of  the  house. 

As  Jeanne  and  Wolfgang  draw  near,  Mamselle 
Ange  appears,  suddenly,  at  the  central  basement 
doorway — a  lamp  in  one  hand,  an  open  letter  in 
the  other.  No  man  has  ever  definitely  made  out 
if  Ange  be  maid,  wife,  or  widow.  It  is  the  cus- 
tom throughout  the  Fatherland  to  call  housekeep- 
ers "mamselle,"  irrespective  of  age,  nation,  or 
social  status  ;  and  Ange,  for  more  than  thirty 
years,  has  reigned  supreme  over  the  still-room  and 
kitchens  of  Schloss  Egmont.  A  Scotchwoman  by 
descent,  Angela  Macgregor's  youth  was  spent  in 
Spain,  from  which  country  she  accompanied  the 
Countess  Dolores  von  Egmont  to  the  Schwarz- 
wald.  From  that  day  to  this  she  has  never  left 
the  grand  duchy  of  Baden.  "  I  dislike  the  coun- 
try, the  climate,  and  the  language,"  Mamselle 
Ange  will  tell  you  in  moments  of  expansion  ;  "  but 
I  stay  here  for  the  sake  of  Paul  and  Salome. 
Dolores  made  me  promise  to  be  true  to  the  chil- 
dren. I  have  kept  my  word — yes,  even  when  their 
father  brought  home  another  wife.  One  may  be 
allowed  to  do  one's  duty,  I  suppose,  without 
liking  it?" 

"  The  children  "  have  long  passed  away  out  of 
Ange's  sight.  Salome,  brilliantly  married  in  her 
teens,  is  mistress  of  a  London  embassy.  Paul, 


20  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

self -exiled  at  the  age  of  twenty,  divides  his  home- 
less Bohemian  life  between  the  different  art  capi- 
tals of  Europe.  But  Ange  remains  at  her  post. 
"When  the  boy  marries,"  she  declares  with  a 
sigh,  "  I  will  take  little  Jeanne  by  the  hand  and 
make  my  way  to  Inverness.  Paul  will  return  with 
his  bride  to  Egmont  some  day,  and  I  shall  go 
back  to  my  father's  house,  among  my  father's  peo- 
ple, to  die." 

At  the  present  moment  excitement,  unwonted, 
heightens  our  good  Mamselle  Ange's  complexion. 
Her  cap,  at  no  time  secure  as  to  its  foundations, 
is  suspended  over  her  left  ear  ;  the  points  of  her 
pelerine  hang  jauntily  from  the  opposite  shoulder. 
'Tis  evident  the  arrival  of  the  letter-carrier  has 
broken  in  upon  some  mysterious  chemistry  of  the 
still-room.  A  huge  checked  apron  envelops  Ange's 
person  from  chin  to  ankle  ;  the  skirt  of  her  dress 
is  pinned  up  in  the  style  called  "  fishwife  "  by  the 
fashion-books  ;  a  pungent  odor  of  raspberries  and 
vinegar  breaks  on  the  sense  at  her  approach. 

"  Here  is  a  fine  prospect  before  us  all,"  she  ex- 
claims, or  rather  soliloquizes,  as  Jeanne  and  the 
master  draw  near.  "  Salome  obliged  to  start  for 
St.  Petersburg  on  political  affairs  —  something 
new  for  our  princess  to  be  so  dutiful  in  accom- 
panying her  husband !  Paul,  no  one  knows 
where,  in  Germany,  and  a  parcel  of  fashionable 
fools  coming  to  Schloss  Egmont  next  Thursday  ! 
Yes,  fashionable  fools  ! "  ejaculates  Ange,  in  fiery 


DUTCH   MICHAEL'S   HOUR.  21 

staccato.  "  The  celebrated  London  beauty,  Viv- 
ian Vivash.  .  .  .  What  do  we  want  with  cele- 
brated beauties  in  the  Black  Forest?  And  her 
friend — a  lady  of  title — and  her  other  friend,  a 
baronet — and  a  maid  !  To  be  entertained  by  me  ! 
'  Trespassers '  (easy  enough  for  Salome  to  write  in 
that  airy  style)  '  upon  our  good  Mamselle  Ange's 
hospitality.'  Very  great  trespassers,  indeed  !  A 
beauty,  and  her  friends,  and  her  maid,  just  in  the 
season  of  the  small  fruits  !  Mr.  Wolfgang " 
(awakening  to  the  master's  presence  with  a  jump  ; 
our  good  Mamselle  being  at  once  short-sighted 
and  absent,  her  existence  is  passed  in  a  chronic  con- 
dition of  surprise),  "  I  believed  you  to  have  started 
for  Freiburg  an  hour  ago.  May  I  ask  you  to  hold 
the  inkstand  upright — I  mean  to  the  left  ? — the  ink 
leaks  when  it  is  held  straight.  If  you  will  wait  a 
minute,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  I  shall  give  you  something 
to  carry  home  with  you.  My  last  two  bottles  of 
raspberry  vinegar  have  not  turned  out  as  clear  as 
I  could  wish." 

"Mr.  Wolfgang  will  drink  tea  with  us  to- 
night," interrupts  little  Jeanne.  "  The  lesson  was 
so  long — I  had  so  many  faults  in  my  exercise — 
that  Mr.  Wolfgang  lost  his  train,  and — " 

"  And  will  have  the  pleasure  of  walking  home 
by  starlight,  Mamselle  Ange's  present  of  rasp- 
berry vinegar  in  his  pocket,"  remarks  Wolfgang, 
with  composure. 

"It  is    not  over-clear,  Mr.  Wolfgang — not  to 


22  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

compare  with  my  company  vinegar — but  it  will 
make  you  a  nice,  wholesome  drink  during  the  hot 
weeks.  And  where  means  are  small,"  says  Ange, 
with  a  compassionate  shake  of  the  head,  "  of  course 
every  little  is  a  help." 

Jeanne  glances  in  an  agony  at  Wolfgang  ; 
but  the  point-blank  mention  of  his  poverty  has 
evidently  not  disconcerted  him.  A  diverted  smile 
lights  his  face  :  as  he  follows  Mamselle  Ange  up 
the  winding  stair  which  leads  from  the  basement 
to  the  parterre  floor,  he  sings,  half  aloud,  the  first 
bars  of  "The  Wanderer  "  : 

"  Tired  and  worn,  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
The  Wanderer  enters  his  native  town, 
And  see !  His  old  friends  pass  him  by, 
So  bronzed  his  cheek.  .  .  ." 

"I  do  not,  generally,  admit  strangers  to  this 
room,"  cries  Mamselle  Ange,  pushing  back  an 
oaken  door  on  the  left  side  of  the  landing.  "  How- 
ever, for  once — Jeanne,  my  dear,"  with  meaning 
— "  for  once,  we  shall  be  glad  to  bid  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang welcome,  and  to  give  him  a  slice  of  currant 
cake,  a  cup  of  English  tea,  such,  I  am  sure,  as  he 
does  not  often  taste. — Come  in,  Mr.  Wolfgang  " 
(accompanying  the  invitation  by  a  ceremonious 
courtesy).  " This  used  to  be  Count  Paul's  study ; 
you  see  his  portrait  there,  above  the  bookcase,  as 
he  was  at  fourteen  ;  and  Jeanne  and  I  make  it  our 
summer  parlor.  One  might  call  it  a  comfortable 


DUTCH  MICHAEL'S  HOUR.  23 

room,  if  it  were  possible  ever  to  be  comfortable 
out  of  Great  Britain.  Two  lone  women  seem  less 
stranded,  at  all  events,  less  like  sand  on  the  sea- 
shore, here  than  elsewhere,  in  Schloss  Egmont." 

It  is  a  room  well  loved  by  little  Jeanne  ;  the 
more,  perhaps,  in  that  she  has  no  British  experi- 
ences whereon  to  found  her  ideas  of  comfort.  A 
wainscoted  hexagonal  room,  situate  in  the  western 
tower  of  the  Schloss,  pine-woods  in  front,  pine- 
woods  on  either  side  ;  a  vista  of  blue  moorland 
showing  through  a  clearing  among  the  forests  at 
one  solitary  point.  As  a  child,  Jeanne  used  to  be 
told  that  blue  streak  was  the  sea.  When  Fraulein 
Jeanne  was  old  enough,  said  the  waiting-maidens, 
she  should  sail  away  thither,  like  the  wood-mer- 
chants floating  down  upon  their  rafts  to  the  coun- 
try of  the  Mynheers,  and  meet  her  father  and  moth- 
er, provided  she  worked  diligently  at  her  sampler 
and  sums  meanwhile. 

Jeanne  Dempster  arrived  at  the  truth  of  the 
legend  a  good  many  years  ago.  She  knows  that 
the  blue  streak  is  the  Rhine  plain  ;  knows  that  her 
father  and  mother  have  crossed  a  sea  the  navi- 
gation of  whose  currents  not  the  most  assiduous 
sampler- working — no,  not  even  a  mastery  of  the 
rule  of  three — can  facilitate.  With  wiser  people 
than  Jeanne,  however,  the  magic  of  a  belief  is  apt 
to  linger  longer  than  the  belief  itself.  The  blue 
streak  is  but  the  Rhine  plain  !  And  still,  at  seven- 
teen as  at  seven,  it  remains  a  heaven-kissed  horizon 


24  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

to  the  girl's  hopes — a  far-stretching  background  to 
a  thousand  sweet  and  unsubstantial  dreams. 

Twilight  by  this  time  has  died  out  ;  external 
objects  are  no  longer  discernible,  yet  can  one  feel 
the  presence  of  the  woods  by  the  indistinct  sough- 
ing sound,  the  piny  aroma  that  enters  through  the 
open  windows.  Unpinning  her  apron  and  setting 
her  cap  approximately  straight  before  the  one 
small  mirror  of  which  the  study  can  boast,  Mam- 
selle  Ange  takes  her  seat  at  the  table,  where  a  lamp 
and  tea  equipage  are  set  ready.  The  master  places 
himself  in  such  a  position  as  exactly  to  confront 
the  picture  of  Count  Paul  von  Egmont. 

It  is  an  oil-painting,  life-size,  by  Werner.  The 
boy,  in  point-lace  and  velvet,  seems  to  look  out 
with  earnest,  living  eyes  from  the  canvas  ;  a  side- 
light falls  softly,  yet  with  Rembrandt-like  inten- 
sity of  effect,  upon  the  fair  young  face. 

"You  are  looking  at  a  masterpiece,  sir,"  says 
Ange,  as  Wolfgang  stirs  his  tea,  somewhat  ab- 
sently. "  It  is  said,  from  an  art  point  of  view,  to 
be  the  best  portrait  Werner  ever  painted,  let  alone 
the  beauty  of  the  subject.  People  used  to  talk  of 
Salome's  good  looks.  '  An  aristocratic  profile,'  said 
these  German  Hochwohlgeborens.  'An  alabaster 
brow — a  complexion  ! '  Salome  was  not  to  be 
spoken  of  in  the  same  day  as  the  boy.  Paul's 
heart  was  aristocratic,  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word,  and  his  heart  was  written  on  his  counte- 
nance. Ah  me  !  "  muses  Ange,  "  I  should  recog- 


DUTCH  MICHAEL'S   HOUR.  25 

nize  his  smile  among  a  thousand.  Salome,  for 
aught  I  know,  may  be  just  a  prettyish,  faded 
woman,  a  doll  that  has  lost  its  paint — the  usual 
ending  of  a  profile  and  a  complexion.  A  face  like 
Paul's  must  grow  nobler  under  the  influence  of 
years.  ; 

"Take  away  the  millinery,  the  velvet,  the 
point-lace,  the  Rembrandt  effect,"  remarks  Wolf- 
gang coolly,  "  and  one  would  call  Paul  von  Eg- 
mont  an  ordinary-looking  boy." 

"  Ordinary  !  "  exclaims  little  Jeanne,  Mamselle 
Ange  chiming  in  an  indignant  second.  "  You  can 
look  at  that  forehead,  at  those  lips,  sir,  and  call 
them  ordinary?  Count  Paul's  face  is  just  the 
most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world,"  says  Jeanne, 
with  warmth.  It  is  not  the  child's  wont  to  be  de- 
monstrative ;  but  Wolfgang's  disparaging  tone, 
a  certain  contempt  with  which  he  looks  up  at 
Paul  von  Egmont's  portrait,  have  stung  her  out 
of  her  accustomed  reticence.  "Whenever  we 
leave  Schloss  Egmont — yes,  mamselle,  whenever 
you  and  I  start  off  for  Inverness — we  will  carry 
that  portrait  away  with  us.  I  could  not  live  with- 
out it." 

The  master  turns  ;  he  looks  at  his  pupil  with 
cool  scrutiny.  (How  sharp  is  the  contrast — the 
thought  flashes  through  Jeanne  Dempster's  mind 
— how  sharp  the  contrast  between  the  lad  with 
his  affluence  of  spirits,  of  hope,  and  the  man, 
"not  clean  past  his  youth,  yet  with  some  smack 


26  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

of  age  in  him,  some  relish  of  the  saltness  of  time," 
and  with  disappointment,  satiety,  regret,  printed, 
deeper  even  than  his  years  should  warrant,  on  his 
face  !)  "  I  should  presume  too  far  did  I  ask  the 
reason  of  Fraulein  Dempster's  enthusiasm,"  he 
remarks,  after  a  pause.  "  As  art,  the  portrait,  like 
all  that  Werner  paints,  has  its  merits.  Beyond 
that—" 

"  Oh,  you  must  never  talk  about  Jeanne's  rea- 
sons," interrupts  Mamselle  Ange  ;  "  little  Jeanne 
likes  and  dislikes,  as  she  does  most  things,  by  in- 
stinct. From  the  time  she  could  notice  anything 
she  took  to  worshiping  Paul's  picture — I  believe, 
until  I  taught  her  better,  used  to  say  her  prayers 
to  it." 

"  Well  for  the  child,"  answers  Wolfgang,  in 
a  tone  that  brings  the  blood  to  Jeanne's  cheek — 
"well  for  the  child,  Mamselle  Ange,  that  she 
used  to  say  her  prayers  to  anything  !  " 

There  is  a  flavor  of  heterodoxy  about  the  re- 
mark that  is  little  to  Mamselle  Ange's  taste.  She 
is  an  out-and-out,  conservative,  a  stickler  for  ev- 
ery inch  of  social  grade  or  barrier,  and  has  no  idea 
of  a  person  in  poor  Mr.  Wolfgang's  class  uttering 
anything  beyond  the  blankest  copy-book  truisms. 
A  man  must  be  a  "  de "  or  a  "  von  "  who  should 
venture,  unrebuked,  in  Ange's  presence,  upon 
such  a  solecism  as  freethinking. 

"Jeanne,  from  her  earliest  years,  has  been 
educated  in  The  Truth."  Capitals  poorly  repre- 


DUTCH  MICHAEL'S  HOUR.  27 

sent  the  pious  emphasis  of  voice.  "She  was  a 
luck-gift  to  me,  you  see,"  says  Mamselle  Ange, 
her  old  face  softening.  "One  of  your  modern 
school  of  doctors,  your  scientists,  your  men  of 
ideas,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  discovered  (in  his  own 
warm  London  study)  that  the  sharp  air  of  the 
Black  Forest  must,  if  you  reasoned  far  enough, 
be  a  cure  for  failing  lungs.  He  wrote  a  pamphlet 
about  it  ;  and  Jeanne's  mother,  nineteen  years 
old,  and  with  death  on  her  flushed  cheeks,  was 
one  of  the  first  sent  to  Autogast  to  test  the  theory. 
She  died  ;  and  the  baby,  of  course,  came  to  me. 
I  wonder  during  my  life  how  many  babies  have 
come,  of  course,  to  me  !  At  first  I  took  small  no- 
tice of  the  child.  I  don't  care  for  wise,  solemn 
babies,  who  look  you  through  and  through  with 
their  black  eyes,  and  never  cry.  Besides,  where 
was  the  use  of  troubling  about  a  little  wretch 
who  would  be  taken  away  from  me  as  soon  as  she 
could  run  alone  ?  However,  that  day  never  came. 
Before  Jeanne  was  three  years  old  (the  girl's  name 
is  Janet,  but  everything  gets  perverted  if  you  live 
among  Germans — to  think  that,  »t  my  time  of  life, 
I,  Angela  Macgregor,  should  pass  by  the  fool's 
name  of  Mamselle  Ange  !) — before  Jeanne  was 
three  years  old  there  arrived  news  that  her  father 
had  gone  down  on  his  way  to  India,  such  fortune 
as  he  had  with  him  ;  and  would  I  like — much  my 
likings  mattered  ! — to  keep  the  child  ?  Yes,  that 
is  how  my  luck-gift  came  to  me." 


28  VIVIAN   THE  BEAUTY. 

"In  the  days  before  Paul  von  Egmont  had 
left  his  home  ?  "  asks  Wolfgang,  once  more  lift- 
ing his  eyes  to  the  young  Count's  portrait. 

"  Paul  von  Egmont  started  for  Rome  a  few 
months  after  the  death  of  Jeanne's  father.  The 
lad's  heart  was  heavy  enough,  God  knows,  with 
his  own  affairs,  but  I  remember  his  taking  Jeanne 
in  his  arms — nay,  child,  there  is  nothing  for  you 
to  turn  so  red  about — and  kissing  her  before  he 
started.  Since  then,  all  have  left  me,"  says 
Mamselle  Ange,  passing  her  hand  across  her 
forehead,  "  the  old  Count,  his  wife,  Salome.  .  .  . 
But  what,"  suddenly  recollecting  her  dignity — 
"  what  can  you  care,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  for  these  fam- 
ily histories  ?  You  alluded,  I  think,  to  Jeanne's 
religious  principles.  She  knew  her  catechism  - 
in  English  and  Scotch,  I  am  no  sectarian — by  the 
age  of  eight.  She  has  been  spiritually  fed  upon 
the  works  of  Jeremy  Taylor  and  Baxter.  And 
she  was  confirmed  last  April — yes,  and  when  these 
dreadful  people  come  upon  us,  child,  you  can  wear 
out  your  confirmation  frock,"  says  Ange,  hastily 
unfolding  her  letter,  then  holding  it  sidewise  at 
about  an  inch  distant  from  her  nose.  "Seven- 
o'clock  dinners,  dressing  of  an  evening,  are  among 
the  pleasures  Salome  has  chalked  out  for  us,  as 
you  shall  hear  : 

"<MY  BEST  MAMSELLE'  (Mamselle!  And  in 
the  old  days  it  was ( alle  liebste  Ange ' — '  ma  bonne 


DUTCH  MICHAEL'S  HOUR.  29 

petite  maman.'  But  nothing  vitiates  human  na- 
ture like  success.  If  Salome  had  married  some- 
thing lower  than  a  prince,  she  might  have  a  heart 
in  her  still)  :  c  After  all,  my  hopes  of  seeing  the 
Schwarzwald  this  summer  are  doomed  to  be  dis- 
appointed. Political  events  have  taken  such  a 
turn  that  the  Prince's  presence  is  needed  at  once 
in  Russia,  and,  of  course,  I  accompany  him.  We 
shall  go  by  Paris — it  lies  not  necessarily  on  our 
road  ;  but  could  I  appear  among  my  husband's 
people '  (Salome  taken  with  sudden  affection  for 
her  husband's  people  !)  ( did  I  not  make  a  pre- 
liminary visit  to  Worth  ?  You  inquire  for  my 
brother.  Paul,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  is  wan- 
dering in  Germany,  possibly  may  arrive  at  Eg- 
mont  in  the  course  of  a  week.  He  appeared  at 
London,  late  in  April,  as  usual,  for  the  exhibitions, 
and,  as  usual,  was  a  victim'  (that  his  sister  has 
never  been)  *  to  sentiment.  Who,  do  you  think,  is 
Paul's  last  fair,  impossible  She  ?  The  reigning — 
ought  I  to  say  the  dethroned? — beauty  of  the 
season,  Vivian  Vivash  !  He  saw  her  first  at  the 
Academy,  in  an  attitude  of  rapt  devotion,  'tis 
said,  before  her  own  portrait ;  refused  to  be  in- 
troduced— you  know  how  little  Paul  frequents 
reputable  society — and  has  worshiped  her  at  a 
distance,  after  his  "  aesthetic  "  fashion,  ever  since. 
Even  in  the  Black  Forest,  you  must  have  heard 
of  our  Hyde  Park  goddess,  Vivian  Vivash.  Her 
smile  has  turned  the  wisest  heads  in  Europe. 


30  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Poets  have  sung  her  praises  ;  artists  have  painted 
her  charms.  Not  a  shop-boy  in  Oxford  Street 
but  wears  her  photograph  in  a  locket ;  not  a 
weekly  social  but  records  her  triumphs  or  her 
defeats.  We  have  had  Vivian  Vivash  bonnets, 
Vivian  Vivash  broughams.  Preachers  have  made 
her  the  text  of  their  admonitions,  tobacconists 
have  engraved  her  on  their  pipes.  And  still — I 
say  it  in  pity,  not  envy — the  dear  creature  has  not 
got  a  feature  in  her  face.  But  you  will  see  her — 
restrain  your  astonishment — and  be  able  to  form 
your  own  opinion.  Thinking  we  should  spend 
August  at  Schloss  Egmont,  I  invited  the  beauty — 
as  a  pleasant  surprise  for  Paul — to  stay  there  with 
us  ;  the  beauty,  her  chaperon  and  dme  damn&e, 
Lady  Pamela  Lawless,  and  little  Sir  Christopher 
Marlowe,  a  tame  baronet,  who  usually  follows  in 
their  wake.  It  is  madness,  you  will  say,  for  Paul 
to  think  of  marrying  a  girl  without  money.  My 
good  friend,  Paul's  life  has  been  one  long  mad- 
ness. The  time  has  come  when  he  is  certain  to 
marry  some  one,  and  Vivian  the  Beauty  would 
be  a  less  discreditable  sister-in-law  than  a  second 
edition  of  Malva,  Wendolin  the  miller's  yellow- 
haired  daughter  !  These  trespassers  on  our  best 
Ange's  hospitality  will  arrive  at  Egmont  next 
Thursday,  by  which  time  Paul,  I  trust,  will  be 
there  to  receive  them.  Of  course  you  and  little 
Jeanne  will  inaugurate  seven-o'clock  dinners  and 
dressing  of  an  evening  during  their  visit.  Salute 


DUTCH  MICHAEL'S  HOUR.  31 

the  child  for  me,  and  believe  in  the  devotion  of 
yours,  SALOME. 

" '  POSTSCRIPT, — It  might  not  be  amiss  to  get 
up  a  ball,  or  festivity  of  some  kind,  to  celebrate 
Paul's  return.  You  would  have  his  authority,  I 
know,  to  invite  the  neighborhood,  and  cooks  and 
fiddlers  could  be  got  over  from  Baden-Baden.' 

"  Madness  !  Yes,  for  once  in  her  life,  Salome 
is  right,"  cries  Mamselle  Ange,  throwing  down 
the  letter  on  the  table.  "A  reigning  London 
beauty,  and  of  a  very  doubtful  kind,  to  be  enter- 
tained here,  at  Schloss  Egmont,  by  me!  I  just 
look  upon  it  all  as  a  sign  of  the  Von  Egmont 
lunacy — " 

"Or  of  Count  Paul's  approaching  marriage — 
which?"  cries  little  Jeanne,  bending  down  her 
face,  as  she  speaks,  above  her  plate. 

"Of  both,"  replies  Ange,  with  a  kindling 
cheek.  "  This  beauty,  this  doll  of  a  London  sea- 
son, will  suit  him  vastly  worse  than  Malva  would 
have  done.  Malva  had  red  hands,  and  rough 
ways,  and  spoke  the  peasant's  dialect ;  but  she 
had  a  modest  woman's  heart  within  her  breast. 
She  could  love.  Time  for  me  and  you  to  pack 
up,  child,"  adds  Ange  hotly.  "We  shall  be 
wanted  for  the  wedding-feast,  perhaps  wanted  to 
set  the  house  in  order  !  Meantime — " 

"Meantime,"  interrupts  Wolfgang,  with  an 
air  of  deference,  "I  trust,  mamselle,  that  my 


32  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

pupil's  studies  will  not  be  interrupted  ?  It  is  need- 
ful that  I  go  to  the  Leipsic  book-fair  for  the  rest 
of  this  week ;  but  I  have  left  Fraulein  Jeanne 
sufficient  work  to  do  in  my  absence.  Count  Paul's 
marriage,"  he  adds,  not  without  a  certain  awk- 
wardness, "  would  naturally  break  up  all  present 
relations  ;  and,  as  you  think  there  is  a  chance  of 
it,  we  had  best  extend  our  studies  while  we  may. 
Now,  a  little  popular  science — " 

"  Never  !  "  exclaims  Mamselle  Ange  with  ener- 
gy. "  I  hear  enough  of  popular  science — material- 
ism made  easy — at  the  Herr  Pastor's  tea-table. 
'Our  thoughts  are  movements  of  matter,'  says 
Popular  Science,  ( and  our  souls  a  pinch  of  phos- 
phorus— ' " 

"  Mamselle  Ange  ! " 

"Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  I  have  heard  the 
Pastor  read  aloud  his  letters  from  Jena.  I  know 
the  jargon  of  the  school.  We  inhabit  an  acci- 
dental world,  in  which  everything  that  is  is  for 
the  worst ;  more  miserable,  because  more  intelli- 
gent, than  an  oyster  ;  respecting  nothing  but  the 
ancestral  apes  from  which  we  spring  ;  and  look- 
ing upon  Belief  as  a  crutch  fit  only  for  sickly 
minds  to  lean  upon.  No  science,  I  thank  you, 
sir,  for  Jeanne.  An  elegant  handwriting,  a  cur- 
sory knowledge  of  polite  literature,  an  aptness  at 
quotation,  used  to  be  held  the  fitting  accomplish- 
ments for  a  gentlewoman.  These  (with  a  smatter- 
ing, perhaps,  of  Latin  and  Euclid)  are  the  accom- 


DUTCH  MICHAEL'S  HOUR.  33 

plishments  in  which  I  desire  that  Miss  Dempster 
should  be  finished." 

"Together  with  proficiency  in  the  manufac- 
ture of  currant  cakes  and  raspberry  vinegar,"  adds 
Wolfgang.  "The  Fraulein's  education  will  be 
perfect — an  admixture  of  solidity  and  ornament 
that  would  have  charmed  Jean  Jacques  himself." 

It  is  already  night  when  the  master  leaves 
Schloss  Egmont — one  of  those  mystic,  moonless 
nights  on  which,  say  the  Wald-folk,  the  good  and 
evil  spirits  of  the  forest  walk  abroad  ;  Dutch 
Michael,  in  his  seven-league  boots,  a  ship's  mast 
for  his  staff,  and  chanting,  in  a  terrible  voice,  his 
litany  of  temptation  : 

"  Gold  for  him  who  will  buy — 

Who  will  buy  ? 

Gold  at  a  trifling  cost :  only  your  souls  to  be  lost — 
Who  will  buy?"— 

the  friendly  Glassman,  with  burnished  hair  and 
beard,  with  clothing  of  spun  glass,  ready  to  be- 
stow good  gifts  on  all  such  human  children  (pro- 
vided they  were  born  between  three  and  four  of 
a  Sunday  afternoon)  as  shall  cross  his  path. 

It  is  already  night,  but  Jeanne  and  Wolfgang 
linger  over  their  farewells  beside  the  outer  gate 
of  the  courtyard.  A  roll  of  exercise-books,  to  be 
corrected,  is  under  the  master's  arm  ;  his  pockets 
are  weighted  with  the  bottles  of  raspberry  vine- 
3 


34  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

gar,  which  Ange,  in  the  fullness  of  her  pity  for  his 
needs,  has  insisted  upon  his  carrying  away. 

"  Good  night  and  good-by,  Fraulein  Jeanne." 
As  he  speaks,  Wolfgang  takes  his  pupil's  slender 
hand  between  his  own.  "I  shall  be  away  five 
days.  Such  things  have  been  known  as  people 
forgetting  each  other  in  less  than  five  days. 
Don't  take  example  by  your  fine,  do-nothing  Lon- 
don visitors.  Get  as  much  Euclid  as  you  can  into 
your  head  before  my  return." 

"  Euclid — always  Euclid  !  "  murmurs  the  child, 
drawing  her  hand  away  with  a  movement  of  petu- 
lance. 

"Yes,  always  Euclid,  as  Mamselle  Ange  has 
laid  an  embargo  on  popular  science.  By  the  way, 
how  many  weeks  is  it  since  Mamselle  Ange  first 
engaged  me  to  give  you  lessons  ?  Sevens-eight, 
is  it  not?" 

"  Eight  weeks  exactly,  sir.  Hans  had  been 
carrying  our  first  hay  the  evening  you  came  to 
speak  to  Ange.  I  was  in  the  cart — do  you  re- 
member ?  " 

"  And  you  threw  me  a  wild  rose — you  gave  me 
a  smile  as  I  passed.  Yes,  I  remember,  Jeanne  ; 
the  last  eight  weeks  have  been  the  happiest  of  my 
life  ! " 

Well  for  Jeanne  that  her  hand  is  in  her  own 
keeping  ;  well  for  her  that  the  darkness  hides  her 
changing  color  from  the  master's  sight. 

"  You  have  the  gift  of  teaching,  I  should  say, 


DUTCH  MICHAEL'S  HOUR.  35 

Mr.  Wolfgang."  If  a  whole  jury  of  impaneled 
matrons  were  present  to  give  her  moral  support, 
Jeanne's  tone  could  not  be  more  correctly  frigid. 
"  Whatever  one  does  well  one  likes.  Still,"  she 
adds  shyly,  "  happiness  is  a  strong  word  to  use  in 
connection  with  Latin  declensions,  English  pars- 
ing, and  a  stupid  pupil." 

"  That  depends  upon  one's  power  of  tolerating 
stupid  pupils,  Jeanne  "  (after  a  pause.  With  youth 
in  one's  veins,  a  pause,  on  a  summer  night  like 
this,  comes  dangerously  near  a  caress).  "Do  you 
know  that  I  am  going  back  to  my  stifling  Frei- 
burg garret  a  rich  man  ?  " 

"  Rich  in  the  possession  of  some  cloudy  rasp- 
berry vinegar  and  a  pile  of  blotted  copy-books," 
says  the  girl,  with  a  somewhat  forced  laugh. 

"  Rich  in  the  possession  of  a  secret  from  which 
I  would  not  part  for  all  the  money  of  all  the  Jews 
in  Freiburg." 

"  Knowledge — " 

"That  has  come  to  me  to-night  at  Schloss 
Egmont  through  the  agency,  did  she  but  know 
it,  of  our  good  Mamselle  Ange.  Wish  me  joy, 
little  Jeanne,"  he  whispers,  ere  the  girl  can  col- 
lect herself,  taking  possession  of  her  hand  again, 
and  this  time  not  relinquishing  it.  "Say  only 
those  four  words,  'I  wish  you  joy.'  I  ask  no- 
thing more." 

"  But  I  am  ignorant.  What  do  I  know  of 
your  life — your  hopes  ?  "  she  stammers. 


36  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  Repeat  the  words,"  he  persists,  in  the  tone 
Jeanne  has  never  found  it  possible  to  disobey. 
"  It  does  not  matter  in  the  slightest  degree  whether 
you  understand  their  import." 

For  a  moment  or  two  longer  Jeanne  hesitates. 
Wolfgang  lifts  her  hand  within  a  couple  of  inches 
of  his  lips. 

"  Take  my  advice.  Be  quick,"  he  tells  her, 
with  meaning,  "or  you  will  have  yourself  to 
thank  for  the  consequences." 

"  I  wish — it  is  the  most  foolish  thing  I  ever 
said  in  my  life,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  but  you  force  me 
into  saying  it — I  wish  you  joy." 

He  looks,  by  such  light  as  the  stars  afford,  into 
the  girl's  transparently  truthful  face  ;  then  quiet- 
ly loosens  his  hold  on  her  hand  and  turns  from 
her  without  another  word.  Away  above  the  vine- 
yards, along  the  straight  white  road  that  leads 
from  Egmont  to  the  outer  world,  Jeanne  watches 
him — away  until  his  figure  is  lost  to  sight  among 
the  purple  darkness  of  the  surrounding  Wald. 
The  clock  of  St.  Ulrich  village  church  is  striking 
as  she  .turns,  lingeringly,  reluctantly,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Schloss. 

"  Eleven  o'clock — Dutch  Michael's  hour,"  cries 
Mamselle  Ange,  who  at  this  moment  is  sallying 
forth,  lantern  in  hand,  to  make  her  last  rounds  for 
the  night.  "  I  never  listen  to  their  superstitions, 
as  you  know,  child  "  (our  good  Ange  has  every 
ghostly  legend  of  the  district  at  her  fingers'  ends) ; 


A  HYDE  PARK  GODDESS.  37 

"still,  there  is  no  falsehood  without  a  grain  of 
truth  at  bottom,  and  the  Tannenbtihl  firs  look 
blacker  than  I  care  to  see  to-night.  What  in  the 
world  has  that  man  Wolfgang  been  saying  to 
you?" 

What,  indeed  !  Jeanne's  heart  beats  thick 
and  fast.  She  glances,  in  a  tremor,  half  delight 
half  fear,  across  the  starlit  courtyard  toward  the 
forest.  All  is  silent.  If  the  spirits  of  the  Wald 
are  abroad,  and  have  listened,  they  keep  her  se- 
cret well. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    HYDE    PARK    GODDESS. 

DURING  the  next  five  days  Schloss  Egmont 
undergoes,  from  roof  to  basement,  the  process, 
horribly  familiar  to  all  thrifty  Marthas  through- 
out the  Fatherland,  of  "  Hausputzen."  Cobwebs, 
thick  with  the  dust  of  ages,  are  swept  down  ; 
tapestries,  moth-eaten  into  lace-work,  are  hung 
up  ;  mirrors  and  candelabra  are  unswathed  from 
the  brown  Holland  surtouts  beneath  which,  during 
the  damps  of  more  than  a  dozen  winters,  they 
have  been  growing  gradually  lusterless.  The 
blue,  or  best,  bedchamber,  untenanted  since  the 
death  of  the  last  Countess,  has  been  set  ready  for 
Miss  Vivash.  An  enchantress  whose  smile  has 


38  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

turned  the  wisest  heads  in  Europe,  a  goddess  whom 
artists  rush  to  paint  and  poets  to  sing,  will  infal- 
libly, so  Ange  theorizes,  turn  out  a  rose-water 
divinity,  a  vaporous,  artificial  doll,  to  whom  faded 
azure  hangings,  spindle-legged  tables,  and  last- 
century  cabinets  will  form  a  fitting  background. 
Jeanne's  pretty  little  schoolroom  (the  scene  of 
many  a  too  happy  lesson  during  the  past  eight 
weeks)  has  been  given  up,  in  order  that  Beauty 
may  have  a  boudoir.  The  village  has  been  rifled 
to  furnish  her  balcony  with  flowers.  Frau  Pastor 
Meyer  has  lent  a  cheval-glass,  brought  from  Paris 
at  the  time  of  the  Pastor's  marriage,  wherein 
Beauty  may  survey  her  charms.  And  then  a 
room  must  be  organized  within  ringing-distance 
— no  easy  matter  at  Schloss  Egmont — for  Beau- 
ty's maid  ;  and  there  must  be  an  apartment  on 
the  same  floor  for  Beauty's  chaperon  and  another 
apartment  for  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe,  the  tame 
Baronet  who  usually  follows  in  Beauty's  wake. 

"  Salome  talks  about  fiddlers  and  cooks  from 
Baden-Baden,"  remarks  Mamselle  Ange  with  tem- 
per. "  Much  good  fiddlers  and  cooks  would  have 
been  in  such  upholsterer's  work  as  ours  !  But 
that  is  just  the  airy  Von  Egmont  manner.  '  Get 
ready  a  dinner  for  to-day,  my  best  mamselle,' 
the  old  Count  used  to  say.  '  A  dozen  friends  are 
coming  unexpectedly  from  Freiburg.  What  shall 
you  provide  for  us  ?  Anything  ;  improvise  as  you 
like,  so  long  as  you  give  us  our  wine  cool.'  This 


A  HYDE  PARK   GODDESS.  39 

in  August,  perhaps  ;  not  a  pound  of  ice  to  be  got 
in  the  whole  country  round.  '  And  let  each  course 
be  of  the  best,,  and  well  served.'  It  is  the  same 
story  still.  '  Inaugurate  late  dinners  ;  dressing 
of  an  evening ;  invite  the  neighborhood  ;  get 
cooks  and  fiddlers  from  Baden-Baden  ! '  I  hope," 
adds  Ange,  with  staccatoed  emphasis — "I  hope 
sincerely  that  Paul  will  marry  his  Beauty  and  be 
happy  with  her.  I  hope  my  reign  is  over.  I  hope 
Schloss  Egmont  is  going  to  have  a  lawful  mis- 
tress at  last." 

The  five-days'  Hausputzen  has  come  to  an 
end  ;  the  last  touch  is  given  to  expectant  prepa- 
ration ;  and  in  the  big  bare  guest-room  Ange  and 
Jeanne,  full-dressed  according  to  Schwarzwald 
notions,  and  with  their  hands  folded  in  unnatural 
idleness,  await  their  London  visitors.  Oh,  the 
discomfort  of  the  high-backed  chairs,  the  faded 
meagerness  of  the  yellow  satin  curtains  !  Oh, 
the  Chinese  monsters  on  the  stove !  Oh,  the 
long-dead  court  goddesses  who  simper  in  pastel, 
with  arched  eyebrows,  cushioned  hair,  and  impos- 
sible waists,  from  the  gilt-and- white  panels  of  this 
stateliest,  chilliest,  least  habitable  apartment  of 
the  Schloss  ! 

In  vain  have  Ange  and  her  handmaid  dusted, 
in  vain  has  Jeanne  decked  every  available  shelf, 
bracket,  and  table,  with  flowers.  The  most  dili- 
gent Hausputzen  can  not  displace  the  moral  cob- 
webs, the  sweetest  rose-odor  can  not  dispel  the 


40  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

intangible  sense  of  mildew  that  haunts  the  walls, 
the  belongings,  the  very  aristocratic  atmosphere 
of  the  Yon  Egmont  guest-room  ! 

"  Except  the  Baden-Baden  Tanzsaal,  I  suppose 
there  is  nothing  like  it  in  the  duchy,"  little  Jeanne 
says,  looking  round  her  with  pride.  "  The  only 
doubt  is — do  we  go  well  with  yellow  satin  ?  The 
Beauty  and  her  friends  will  scarcely  trouble  them- 
selves to  look  at  us,  I  dare  say.  Still,  one  would 
not  like  to  disgrace  Count  Paul  in  the  sight  of 
his  London  guests." 

And,  crossing  the  room,  the  girl  sets  herself  to 
the  contemplation  of  Ange's  figure  and  her  own, 
reflected  back,  as  they  are,  by  an  ancient  and  pro- 
portionably  unflattering  mirror,  crookedly  hung 
(everything  at  Schloss  Egmont,  from  pewter  ink- 
stands up  to  Venetian  glass,  has  a  touch  of  ob- 
liquity about  it)  between  the  central  windows. 

Little  Jeanne  has  the  true  Raphael-red  hair, 
the  deep,  dark  eyes  of  the  Madonna  del  San  Sisto. 
More  than  one  painter,  traveling  through  the  Wald 
in  search  of  "  sacred  "  coloring,  has  sought  her  as 
a  sitter.  Sought  her  in  vain.  With  Malva's  his- 
tory serving  as  warning,  what  girl,  within  a  dozen 
miles  of  St.  Ulrich,  would  lend  her  face  as  a  model 
for  the  Holy  Mother  ?  Her  skin  is  palely  clear, 
varying  with  every  varying  feeling  of  the  quick- 
est, most  emotional  of  natures  ;  her  unformed 
figure  inclines  to  lankiness  ;  her  shoulders  stoop 
at  times  ;  the  bridge  of  her  nose  is  not  innocent 


A  HYDE  PARK  GODDESS.  41 

of  a  freckle  or  two — and  her  smile  is  a  gleam  of 
pure  sunshine  !  She  has  attired  herself  on  the 
present  occasion  in  the  best  frock — second,  of 
course,  to  her  confirmation  muslin — that  her 
scanty  wardrobe  owns — a  kind  of  serviceable 
white  dimity  much  affected  for  Sunday  wear  by 
the  young  women  of  the  district,  shrunk  by  re- 
peated washings,  and  showing  more  wrist  and 
ankle  than  ever  entered  into  the  original  inten- 
tion of  the  village  dressmaker.  Her  hair,  in  all 
its  plenitude  of  red,  .is  set  forth  in  a  multitude 
of  the  towering  plaits  dear  to  the  provincial 
Teutonic  mind.  A  coral  necklace,  dating  from 
Mamselle  Ange's  infancy,  is  round  her  throat. 
She  wears  a  white  cambric  apron,  double-soled 
shoes,  of  honest  Schwarzwald  manufacture,  and 
a  pair  of  open-work  stockings,  knitted  by  the  Frau 
Pastor  as  a  birthday  present,  and  never  put  on  save 
for  the  high  and  solemn  ceremonial  days  of  life. 

So  much  for  little  Jeanne.  Now  for  Ange, 
"  our  best  mamselle,"  elaborately  dressed  for  com- 
pany, and  as  well  satisfied  with  the  result  of  her 
labors  as  though  the  prince  of  man-milliners  had 
consented,  for  some  two  or  three  thousand  francs, 
to  make  her  his  "  study."  A  tall,  spare  maiden 
the  wrong  side  of  fifty — Mamselle  Ange  has  been 
the  wrong  side  of  fifty  as  far  back  as  Jeanne's 
memory  can  stretch — indistinct  of  feature,  with 
yellow  hair  arranged  in  curls  on  either  side  a 
cannon-ball  forehead  ;  with  a  reddish  complexion  ; 


42  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

with  laces,  lappets,  garnitures,  all  arranged  upon  a 
dozen  different  conflicting  models,  and  all  crook- 
ed. (In  writing  this  word  I  would  not  hint  that 
Mamselle  Ange  is  disfigured,  morally  or  physi- 
cally, by  any  actual  twist.  She  is,  on  the  con- 
trary, upright  of  structure  as  an  ostrich,  a  bird  at 
which  I  can  never  look  without  being  reminded 
of  her.  Neither,  scrutinizing  her  appearance  in 
detail,  could  you  state,  specifically,  in  which  par- 
ticular garment  the  want  of  balance  resides.  And 
still,  notably  on  this  evening  when  the  London 
guests  are  to  arrive,  does  the  whole  voluminous 
structure  seem  to  totter  to  its  fall.)  Her  cap-rib- 
bon is  blue — when  does  an  ancient  blonde  forsake 
her  standard  ? — her  dress  a  sage-green  silk,  dating 
from  some  epoch  when  our  race,  it  would  seem, 
affected  "patterns,"  woven  in  vari-color,  along  a 
multitude  of  flounces.  She  is  redolent  of  laven- 
der-water, confectioned  in  the  Egmont  still-room, 
and  all  unlike  the  foreign  flavored  essences  of  Lon- 
don or  Paris  ;  is  adorned  by  a  Japanese  fan,  never 
before  known  to  emerge  from  silver  paper  into  the 
light  of  day,  by  a  museum  of  hair-rings,  and,  on 
her  breast,  by  the  portrait  of  a  Macgregor,  with 
high  cheek-bones  and  an  upper  lip,  in  a  kilt. 

"  I  hope,"  says  little  Jeanne,  with  solemn  ea- 
gerness— "  I  hope  we  don't  look  dreadfully  like 
the  dancing  ladies  in  the  booths  at  Freiburg  Fair? 
It  may  be  only  the  effect  of  the  window-curtains, 
of  course,  but  we  are  not  in  tune"  Although  she 


A  HYDE  PARK  GODDESS.  43 

has  never  heard  of  South  Kensington,  Jeanne  is 
instinct  to  the  very  finger-tips  with  artistic  feeling. 
"  Ought  we  to  be  paler  about  the  hair  and  skin,  do 
you  suppose?  Or  ought  they  not  to  be  yellow 
satin  ?  " 

u  Salmon  color  and  yellow  are  death  to  a  fine 
complexion,"  Mamselle  Ange  enunciates  with 
authority.  "  I  said  so  to  Dolores  when  first  she 
chose  the  hangings.  But  we  know  what  these 
Spanish  women  are  !  Coquetry  or  devotion,  a 
mantilla  or  a  priest — all  the  poor  dear  thought 
of  was  her  own  sallow  cheeks.  I  have  been  killed, 
murdered  by  yellow  satin  during  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  and  but  for  my  pious  bringing  up  should 
infallibly  have  been  driven  into  rouge.  There  was 
the  difference  in  our  position.  Up  to  the  day  of 
her  death  Dolores  used  to  put  on  her  ermine  with 
no  more  scruple  than  she  did  her  rosary ;  and  I 
have  no  doubt  Paul's  goddess,  Miss  Vivian  Vivash, 
will  have  the  same  elastic  conscience.  Miss  Vivian 
Vivash  !  "  repeats  Ange  in  stinging  accents;  "  there 
is  a  straining  after  effect  in  the  alliteration,  an  im- 
pertinence in  the  juxtaposition  of  the  letters.  To 
think,  after  thirty  years'  fidelity,  that  I  should  be 
displaced  by  such  a  successor — the  vapid  beauty 
of  a  London  season,  the  idol  of  tobacconists  and 
photographers,  a  milliner's  block,  a  setter  of  fash- 
ions, a  Vivian  Vivash  !  " 

Scarcely  has  the  name  left  Mamselle  Ange's 
lips,  when  the  crunch  of  wheels,  the  cracking  of 


44  VIVIAN   THE  BEAUTY. 

whips,  resound  from  the  courtyard.  There  comes 
a  minute  of  keen  expectancy  ;  little  Jeanne,  like 
one  under  the  influence  of  hasheesh,  feels  as  if  these 
intense  sixty  seconds  equaled  a  year  of  common 
life  !  The  tones  of  a  woman's  voice,  loud,  drawl- 
ing, uneducated,  are  heard  in  the  entrance-hall ; 
and  then  the  salon-door  is  thrown  open,  and  Vivian 
the  Beauty  stands  there. 

And  the  first  thought  of  Ange  and  Jeanne 
alike — the  first  thought  of  those  poor  uncultivated 
heathen  is,  that  the  great  London  beauty  pos- 
sesses no  beauty  at  all !  So  much  is  training  need- 
ed for  appreciation  of  really  high  art,  on  or  off 
canvas,  in  our  day  ! 

A  sandy  blonde  by  nature,  with  the  phlegmatic 
temperament,  the  dense,  bloodless  complexion  of 
the  type,  Vivian's  hair  is  deepened,  artificially,  to 
a  lusterless,  inky  black.  She  wears  it  plainly  drawn 
from  a  brow  that  with  all  its  snows,  with  all  its 
handsome  carvings,  is  soulless.  The  nose  is  com- 
mon ;  if  it  were  not  for  the  verdict  of  St.  James's 
Street,  one  would  be  tempted  to  call  it  broad. 
The  jawbone  is  square  ;  the  lips  are  full  as  the 
lips  of  an  octoroon.  Miss  Vivash  has  strong,  white 
teeth,  eyebrows  carefully  selected  to  match  her 
hair,  a  pair  of  unabashed,  steel-colored  eyes,  an 
excruciating  waist,  a  throat,  and  shoulders.  She 
wears  a  tight-fitting  pearl-gray  traveling-dress,  a 
tiny  pearl-gray  hat,  with  a  solitary  tuft  of  gilt 
feathers,  pearl-gray  gloves  and  boots,  and  a  neck- 


A  HYDE  PARK   GODDESS.  45 

let  of  dead  gold.  Not  a  discordant  tint,  not  a  su- 
perabundant gather  or  fold — indeed,  the  Beauty's 
dress  would  seem  not  so  much  to  belong  to  her  as 
to  be  herself.  In  little  Jeanne's  attire,  as  in  Mam- 
selle  Ange's,  buttons  and  hooks  are  not  unfre- 
quently  notable  by  their  deficiency.  Mortal  eye 
can  not  discern  the  means  whereby  Miss  Vivash 
divests  herself  of  that  shimmering,  f oldless  dress 
of  hers,  unless  it  be  by  some  mysterious  snake-like 
process  of  sloughing.  There  is,  indeed,  an  inde- 
scribable look  about  her  whole  person — the  small 
head  thrown  back  upon  the  thick  throat,  the  gleam 
of  gold,  the  pale  chill  eyes — that  causes  Jeanne,  in 
this  first  moment  of  meeting,  to  recall  the  gliding, 
deadly  inhabitants  of  the  Schloss  moat  with  a  shud- 
der. The  impression,  like  most  of  little  Jeanne's 
"  fancies,"  is  destined  to  stand  the  test  of  time. 

"  And  so  this  is  Schloss  Egmont !  I  didn't 
think  such  a  hideous  place  was  possible  out  of  a 
pre-Raphaelite  nightmare.  What  a  paper,  what 
curtains !  I  feel  a  moral  indigestion  already. 
And  you "  (she  produces  a  pair  of  double  glasses, 
and  gives  Jeanne  a  cruel  stare — a  stare  such  as 
high-born  dames,  not  beauties,  are  in  the  habit, 
doubtless,  of  bestowing  upon  herself) — "  you,  I 
suppose,  are  the  Mamselle  Ange  of  whom  our 
dear  Princess  spoke  ?  " 

(For  Beauty  is  on  so  equal  a  footing  with 
titled  personages  that  she  talks  of  them'  ever  in 
such  terms  as  "  dear  "  and  "  sweet "  !  Unless, 


46  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

indeed,  titled  personages  chance  to  have  offered 
her  a  rebuff — when  hey,  presto  !  flow  expressions 
the  reverse  of  pearls  and  diamonds  from  those 
roseate  but  plebeian  lips.) 

Mamselle  Ange  rises,  with  stiff  politeness,  and 
prepares  to  do  the  honors.  She  has  stood  too 
much  on  her  own  dignity  to  meet  the  travelers  at 
the  house-door.  Miss  Yivash  may  be  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  Europe — may  be  the  future 
mistress  of  Schloss  Egmont — Mamselle  Ange  is 
a  Macgregor  and  a  gentlewoman,  bound  to  show 
hospitable  courtesy  to  Paul  von  Egmont's  guests, 
but  as  an  equal,  not  a  dependent. 

"Miss  Vivash  and  her  friends,"  she  remarks, 
with  a  courtesy  of  thirty  years  ago,  "  are  welcome 
to  the  Black  Forest.  Being  uncertain  whether 
you  would  take  refreshment  on  the  road,  I— 

"  Refreshment !  "  interrupts  Vivian,  with  the 
point-blank  rudeness  that  sits  so  naturally  on  her. 
"  We  were  present  at  a  cannibal  repast,  somewhere 
at  some  unearthly  hour  of  the  morning.  Every 
conceivable  variety  of  nastiness — raw  ham,  sour 
cabbage,  sausages,  and  upward  of  a  hundred  na- 
tives— you  are  one  of  them,  doubtless  ? — devour- 
ing, fearfully  and  wonderfully,  with  their  knives  !  " 

Ange  draws  up  her  spare  figure  to  its  fullest 
height. 

"  Every  nation  has  its  own  manners,  as  every 
class  in  life  has  its  ideas  of  breeding,"  she  remarks 
sententiously. 


A  HYDE  PARK   GODDESS.  47 

The  Beauty  condescends  not  to  reply.  She 
continues  to  stare  at  the  faded  yellow  curtains, 
the  tasteless  hangings,  the  high-backed  chairs,  the 
figures  of  the  housekeeper  and  little  Jeanne — con- 
tinues to  stare  steadily,  through  that  double  eye- 
glass, familiar  to  every  idle  apprentice  of  the  Lon- 
don streets,  with  an  air  of  mock  criticism  at  once 
languid  and  aggressive. 

"  I  declare  it  is  all  quite  too  deliciously  horrid," 
she  drawls  at  length.  "  Lady  Pamela — Sir  Chris- 
topher "  (turning  to  two  new  personages  who,  at 
this  moment,  make  their  appearance  in  the  door- 
way), "  come  and  see  what  is  to  be  seen.  I  have 
agreed  to  spend  a  fortnight  here — two  weeks, 
fourteen  days — hours  that  it  would  require  a  Bab- 
bage  machine  to  calculate — and  I  look  to  you, 
between  you,  to  hinder  me  from  committing  sui- 
cide." 

Lady  Pamela  Lawless  is  about  as  plain  as  it  is 
possible  for  a  woman  possessing  youth  and  health 
to  be  ;  and  still,  go  where  she  will,  Lady  Pame- 
la's fresh,  frank,  irregular  face  is  a  popular  one. 
Needless  to  speak  of  defect  of  feature  where  all 
is  defect.  Lady  Pamela  has  a  complexion  honestly 
white-and-red  as  a  Lancashire  rose,  a  pair  of  hu- 
morously twinkling  greenish  eyes,  fifteen  hundred 
a  year  absolutely  under  her  own  control,  and 
dimples.  She  is  dressed  in  a  white  serge  short 
enough  to  allow  you  to  do  more  than  guess  at  a 
pair  of  pretty  ankles,  scarlet  stockings,  and  a  cap 


48  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

to  match  ;  a  cap  of  the  form  known,  I  believe,  in 
the  trade  as  the  "  Yivian  toquet." 

If  Mamselle  Ange  and  Jeanne  gazed,  awe- 
struck, at  Beauty's  sheeny,  snake-like  gracefulness, 
you  may  imagine  how  their  eyes  widened  at  the 
ankle-short  skirt,  the  head-dress,  the  scarlet  stock- 
ings of  Lady  Pamela  Lawless  ! 

"  It  seems  that  we  shall  have  to  introduce  our- 
selves." And,  stepping  forward,  Lady  Pamela 
bestows  a  hearty  hand-shake,  first  on  Mamselle 
Ange,  then  on  Jeanne.  "  As  I  am  chaperon  of  the 
party,  suppose  I  go  through  the  ceremony  cate- 
gorically. You  see  before  you,  ladies,  Miss  Yivian 
Yivash,  of  cosmopolitan  celebrity  "  (with  a  show- 
man-like wave  of  the  hand  indicating  Beauty — 
poor  Beauty,  whose  head,  like  that  of  Lamb's 
Scotchman,  must  go  through  an  anatomical  opera- 
tion ere  a  joke  could  enter  it).  "  Miss  Yivash  has 
had  the  honor  of  appearing,  ladies,  before  half  the 
crowned  heads  in  Europe,  has  been  photographed 
for  the  public  in  thirty-five  different  attitudes, 
and  is  commonly  supposed  to  be  the  most  mar- 
velous specimen  of  our  race  ever  beheld  since  the 
days  of  Solomon  !  Secondly,  Lady  Pamela  Law- 
less" (accompanying  the  mention  of  her  own 
name  with  a  bob-courtesy  like  a  charity  school- 
girl's). "And,  thirdly,  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe, 
of  whom  Shakespeare  wrote,  prophetically,  in 
divers  texts  :  '  He  capers,  he  dances,  he  has  eyes 
of  youth,  he  writes  verses,  he  speaks  an  infinite 


A  HYDE  PARK  GODDESS.  49 

deal  of  nothing,  he  smells  of  April  and  May. 
From  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot, 
he  is  all  mirth.  He  hath  twice  or  thrice  cut  Cu- 
pid's bow-string,  and  the  little  hangman  dare  not 
shoot  at  him  more.'  " 

Sir  Christopher  Marlowe  is  a  very  small,  scru- 
pulously dandified  man  of  seven-  or  eight-and- 
twenty.  In  the  present  free-and-easy  generation 
of  wideawakes  and  shooting- jackets,  many  men 
lie  open  to  the  charge  of  bringing  the  country 
into  Pall  Mall.  Sir  Christopher  carries  Pall  Mall 
about  with  him  like  an  atmosphere.  He  is  as  pink- 
complexioned  as  any  lovely  wax  Adonis  in  a 
barber's  window,  regular  of  feature,  with  dark 
mustache,  and  inch-long  regulation  whiskers ; 
wears  a  tall  hat  and  frock-coat,  even  when  he 
travels  ;  wears  guillotine  collars,  pointed  boots,  a 
crutch,  and  a  bracelet — and,  withal,  is  one  of 
the  finest-hearted  little  English  gentlemen  in  the 
world  !  As  a  leader  of  cotillions,  a  singer  of  after- 
dinner  songs,  an  amateur  actor,  a  stout  rider  across 
country,  who  does  not  know  "Kit  Marlowe"? 
Who  (among  his  own  set,  at  least)  did  not  rejoice 
when,  at  the  close  of  last  season,  Vivian  the 
Beauty — stalking  bigger  game  just  then — thought 
fit  to  jilt  him  ?  "  Sir  Christopher  is  Beauty's  slave 
to  this  hour,"  says  the  section  of  the  world  who 
believe  that  there  can  be  no  kernel  in  this  light 
nut ;  that  the  soul  of  the  man  is  his  clothes.  "  See 
how  Quixotically  he  makes  himself  the  champion 
4 


50  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

of  her  fame  !  How  he  stood  by  her — when  so 
many  fell  away — after  that  affair  at  the  Orleans  ! 
How  constantly  he  remains  her  shadow,  go  where 
she  will !  The  Beauty  has  but  to  lift  a  finger,  and 
she  can  become  Lady  Marlowe  to-morrow."  Kit 
Marlowe's  friends  —  those  more  especially  who 
watched  him  recover  from  the  first  shock  of  Viv- 
ian's infidelity — think  otherwise. 

"  The  Princess  ought  to  have  warned  one, 
positively,  of  the  treat  that  was  in  store,"  remarks 
Miss  Vivash,  when  the  introductions  are  over. 
And,  heeding  her  hosts  no  more  than  the  Chinese 
monsters  on  the  stove,  she  walks  across  to  one  of 
the  window-curtains,  then  holds  up  a  point  of  its 
moth-eaten  texture  between  her  finger  and  thumb. 
"  If  ever  I  leave  Schloss  Egmont  alive,  I  shall  feel 
it  a  duty  to  carry  away  a  piece  of  the  drawing-room 
tapestries  for  the  British  Museum — '  Specimen  of 
Teutonic  art-taste,  as  shown  in  house  decoration.'  " 

Mamselle  Ange  seats  herself  on  the  central, 
most  impossibly  stiff-backed  ottoman  of  the  Saal, 
arranges  her  flounces,  and  clears  her  throat  in  a 
short,  dry  fashion  that  Jeanne  knows  to  be  pro- 
phetic. 

"  This  drawing-room  was  furnished,  as  it  now 
stands,  when  the  Countess  Dolores,  one  of  the 
most  noted  beauties  of  her  day,  came  here  as  a 
bride.  That  was  in  'forty- one." 

"  'Forty-one — of  which  century  ?  "  inquires 
Vivian,  with  artless  impertinence.  "The  seven- 


A  HYDE  PARK  GODDESS.  51 

teenth — the  eighteenth?  Surely  these  tapestries 
must  date  longer  back  than  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago  ?  " 

"  They  date  back  to  July,  eighteen  hundred 
and  forty-one,  my  dear  young  lady  ;  ten  years  or 
so  before  you  were  born." 

Vivian's  cheeks  fire.  She  has,  in  truth,  left 
her  six-and- twentieth  birthday  some  way  behind, 
and  the  subject  of  age  and  dates  is  distasteful  to 
her,  as  Mamselle  Ange,  with  fine  feminine  intui- 
tion, would  seem  to  have  discovered. 

"  In  eighteen  hundred  and  forty-one  Count 
Oloff  brought  his  bride  home,  and  the  reception- 
rooms  were  redecorated  according  to  her  taste. 
Perhaps  I  might  have  counseled  blue  myself," 
says  Mamselle  Ange,  "  for  I  was  blonde,  and  we 
washy  blondes"  (she  glances  at  Vivian's  artificially 
ebon  locks)  "  can  not  stand  the  neighborhood  of 
warm  color.  The  Countess  Dolores  had  southern 
blood  in  her  veins  ;  the  complexion  of  a  pomegran- 
ate ;  dark  eyes,  that  seemed  to  light  the  room  up 
at  a  glance. — You  never  read  the  Duke  de  Roche- 
foucauld's <  Portraits,'  Miss  Vivash  ?  So  I  should 
suppose.  Dolores  von  Egmont  is  described  there, 
under  the  title  of  '  Nuage.'  She  was  celebrated 
in  every  court  in  Europe.  I  have  seen  kaisers, 
princes,  ministers  —  I  have  seen,"  says  Ange, 
launching,  it  may  be  feared,  from  the  vero  into  the 
ben  trovato,  "  the  great  Talleyrand  himself,  in 
this  salon,  at  her  feet." 


52  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"How  quite  too  awfully  jolly!"  responds 
Beauty,  with  her  drawl.  "  If  the  great  Talley- 
rand— whoever  that  venerable  duffer  may  be — is 
still  alive,  pray  have  him  over  to  Schloss  Egmont 
for  my  benefit." 

The  expression  of  Mamselle  Ange's  face  is  a 
study. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CHAFF. 

HALF-PAST  twelve  is  the  accustomed  dinner- 
time at  Schloss  Egmont.  Jeanne  has  passed  her 
life,  Mamselle  Ange  has  spent  over  thirty  years, 
in  the  Black  Forest ;  and,  whatever  English  pro- 
clivities linger  in  their  hearts,  their  frugal  tastes, 
their  hours — shall  I  add,  their  blessed  contentment 
with  themselves  and  with  their  lot  ? — are  German. 

This  evening,  however,  for  the  first  time  in 
Jeanne's  experience,  a  seven-o'clock  dinner  is  to  be 
served.  Frau  Meyer  from  the  parsonage  has  giv- 
en her  help  as  regards  the  arrangement  of  dishes. 
(The  Herr  Pastor  spent  a  fortnight  in  Paris  after 
his  marriage,  and  his  wife  is  still  the  acknowl- 
edged authority  in  taste  throughout  the  district.) 
Hans  the  gardener,  in  rehabilitated  livery,  is  to 
display  his  newly  learned  accomplishments  as  a 
waiter.  The  family  plate,  emancipated,  like  Ange's 


CHAFF.  53 

fan,  from  silver  paper  and  darkness,  decks  the 
table.  Elspeth,  the  parlor-maid,  has  appareled 
herself  in  her  noisiest  walking-shoes,  in  her  stiffest 
Sonntagschleif  e,  those  marvelous  black-silk  bows, 
projecting  like  kite's  wings  from  either  side  of 
the  forehead,  with  which  the  Black  Forest  women 
seek  to  enhance  the  scanty  beauty  Heaven  has  be- 
stowed upon  them.  The  rusty  tocsin,  or  alarm- 
bell,  is  rung  for  a  good  five  minutes  before  din- 
ner, rung  by  Hans's  stout  arm,  with  a  will  that 
sends  forth  bats  and  owls,  affrighted,  from  every 
ivied  jetty,  frieze,  and  buttress,  into  the  flaring 
amber  of  the  western  sunlight. 

"  I  know,  by  experience,  how  most  evil  things 
taste  in  the  mouth,"  says  Vivian,  when  the  queer- 
ly  assorted  party  has  met  at  table  in  the  dining- 
room — a  table  that  would  hold  eighty,  a  room 
that  would  not  be  overcrowded  by  a  hundred 
guests.  "Schloss  Egmont  gives  me  a  new  and 
horrible  sensation.  I  realize  what  one  might  feel 
as  the  heroine  of  a  three-volume  novel.  Blue 
chambers,  faded  arras,  owls,  specters  !  "  (this  with 
a  side-glance  at  Mamselle  Ange's  figure).  "I 
declare  not  an  accessory  is  wanting." 

"Except  the  Prince  Charming  of  the  story," 
remarks  Sir  Christopher.  He  has  a  voice  at  once 
treble  and  tragic  ;  enunciates  his  syllables  in  a 
slow,  methodical  way  that  heightens,  by  contrast, 
the  ever-changing  comedy  of  his  face.  "  Rawdon 
Crawley  having  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh,  the 


54  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

world  can  scarcely  hope  to  be  regaled  with  anoth- 
er 'Novel  without  a  hero.'  " 

"  Surely  you  could  play  the  part  by  proxy," 
cries  Lady  Pamela,  in  her  off-hand  fashion — "  play 
it,  at  least,  until  the  Count  von  Egmont  appears  in 
person.  You  could  not  find  a  pleasanter  occupa- 
tion." 

"Pleasant  but  dangerous — for  the  heroine," 
says  Kit  Marlowe,  with  a  genial  little  internal 
smile  he  has — the  smile  of  a  man  who  "fancies 
himself"  above  all  things.  "I  know  my  own 
luck  too  well  to  put  myself,  vicariously,  in  an  ab- 
sent lover's  shoes." 

At  which  innocent  remark  the  Beauty's  cheeks 
fire.  She  is  not  without  a  certain  limited  conven- 
tional aptness.  No  woman  with  wits  intensified 
by  a  couple  of  rapidest  London  seasons  but  must 
be  posted  in  the  second-hand  persiflage,  the  ac- 
quired banter  that  pass  muster,  when  politics  are 
stagnant  and  the  dog-days  approaching,  for  smart- 
ness. Here  her  sense  of  humor  ends.  A  jest,  the 
approach  to  a  jest,  upon  the  sacred  subject  of  her 
own  charms,  is  to  Miss  Yivash  a  blasphemy — the 
only  one,  it  may  be  added,  at  which  she  would  be 
greatly  disposed  to  take  umbrage. 

Persiflage — our  great-grandmothers  used  the 
word,  and  shone  in  the  accomplishment.  Shades 
of  sprightliest  Fanny  Burney  and  Thrale  !  can  it 
be  truly  reproduced  in  the  dreary  compound  of 
slang  and  cynicism,  the  scoffing  at  all  things  gen- 


CHAFF.  55 

erous  or  solemn,  which  the  present  generation 
calls  "  chaff  "  ?  During  the  opening  courses  of 
dinner  things  go  off  smoothly.  Hans  and  Elspeth 
acquit  themselves  tolerably  as  long  as  Ange's  oft- 
repeated  warnings  ring  freshly  in  their  ears.  The 
soup,  the  fish,  are  served  with  decent  quietness. 
The  guests  talk  briskly  between  themselves.  That 
their  discourse  seems  to  lack  edge,  seems  occasion- 
ally to  lack  meaning,  results  doubtless  from  defi- 
ciency of  apprehension  in  the  hearers.  Judging 
from  the  effect  produced  upon  each  other,  'tis  a 
very  feast  of  reason,  a  flow  of  soul,  a  jackdaws' 
parliament  !  The  vast  old  room  rings  and  re- 
echoes to  their  incessant  peals  of  laughter.  What 
is  the  staple  of  their  merriment  ?  Buffoonery,  it 
would  seem  to  the  uninitiated,  rather  than  wit. 
Heavily  manufactured  jokes,  whereof  the  point 
consists  in  the  introduction  of  some  one  oft-reiter- 
ated current  word  ;  personalities  ;  scandals,  com- 
pared to  which  the  reputations  slain  by  Lady 
Sneerwell  and  Mr.  Crabtree  had  been  as  nothing. 
This  lasts  for  a  time,  then  the  travelers'  spirits 
flag,  and  with  a  child's  quick  sensitiveness  Jeanne 
detects  that  Vivian  is  casting  round  her  for  fresher 
diversion  than  our  poor  Sir  Harry's  loss  of  honor, 
our  sweet  Lady  Jane's  loss  of  complexion,  arid 
other  remembered  misfortunes  of  dearest  absent 
friends.  She  has  not  far  to  see!:.  Hans  and  El- 
speth, crimson  with  heat,  are  fast  lapsing  into  the 
stage  of  obdurate  incapacity  at  which,  when  fairly 


56  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

put  upon  his  metal,  the  Black  Forest  peasant  de- 
fies all  honest  competition.  They  distribute  dishes 
where  plates  should  be  ;  they  plant  plates  in  the 
center  of  the  table  ;  they  fling  about  coroneted 
Yon  Egmont  spoons  as  liberally  as  the  personages 
in  a  fairy  tale  are  wont  to  throw  about  gold  and 
silver.  They  wipe  their  sunburned,  exudating  fore- 
heads. They  talk  aloud.  They  giggle.  Jeanne 
can  see  that  Miss  Vivash  and  Lady  Pamela  ex- 
change glances. 

The  situation  is  crucial ;  but  worse,  far  worse, 
is  to  come.  Our  good  Mamselle  Ange  has  not 
lived  thirty  years  in  the  Wald  without  forget- 
ting some  of  the  axioms  laid  down  by  modern 
Chesterfields  in  handbooks  of  etiquette.  She 
knots  her  table-napkin  firmly  under  her  chin  at 
the  commencement  of  dinner,  cuts  up  her  meat 
with  the  bold  action  of  a  demonstrating  surgeon, 
eats  cherry  jam  liberally  between  every  course, 
and  helps  herself  to  all  such  lighter  matters  as 
gravy,  condiments,  or  vegetables,  upon  the  blade 
of  her  knife. 

"We  are  told  by  our  masters,  the  penny-a- 
liners,"  says  Sir  Christopher,  pointedly  addressing 
himself  to  no  one  in  particular,  "  that* the  avidity 
with  which  this  generation  flocks  to  sights  of  hor- 
ror is  a  sign  of  decadence.  Old  Rome — fine  la- 
dies— gladiators.  My  taste  is  pure  and  uncor- 
rupted.  I  have  never  been  to  an  execution  or  a 
bull-fight,  to  see  Blondin  or  Zadkiel.  My  blood 


CHAFF.  57 

runs  cold  at  the  thought  of  an  innocent  fellow 
creature  "  (he  gives  a  little  shudder,  and  sinks  back 
in  his  chair)  "  risking  his  life  for  my  diversion." 

Mamselle  Ange  at  this  moment  is  really  per- 
forming prodigies  of  valor  as  she  swallows 
poached  eggs  and  spinach  from  the  blade  of  her 
knife — an  honest,  circular-shaped  weapon,  fash- 
ioned doubtless  at  an  epoch  when  to  eat  with 
one's  fork  would  have  been  looked  upon  through- 
out the  Fatherland  as  an  effeminacy.  She  sees 
nothing  of  the  little  by-play  going  on  between  the 
guests,  pays  no  more  heed  to  Sir  Christopher's 
attitude  of  sham  horror  than  to  Beauty's  up- 
lifted brow,  or  the  twinkle  of  mischievous  fun  in 
Lady  Pamela's  eyes.  Let  Ange  be  once  occu- 
pied with  her  knife  and  fork,  the  former  espe- 
cially, and  there  is  about  her  a  quite  Socratic 
disregard  for  all  besides.  Minor  accidental  sur- 
roundings become 

"  .  .  .  small  and  undistinguishable, 
Like  far-off  mountains  turned  into  clouds." 

Little  Jeanne  suffers,  as  I  believe  children  alone 
are  capable  of  suffering,  beneath  ridicule.  Until 
to-day  Jeanne  has  regarded  everything  at  Schloss 
Egmont — Ange's  best  flowered  silk,  the  moth- 
eaten  curtains,  the  pastel  goddesses,  the  broad- 
bladed  knives — with  the  unquestioning  faith  of 
her  age.  She  sees  them,  suddenly,  as  they  must 
appear  through  the  double  eye-glasses  of  Miss 


58  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Vivian  Vivash,  and  quivers  as  with  a  living,  pas- 
sionate shame  ! 

Accompanying  dessert  comes  art-talk.  The 
late  Count  von  Egmont  was  himself  an  artist  of 
no  mean  merit,  and  the  Speise-saal  is  decorated 
with  frescoes,  painted  under  his  direction,  in  mem- 
ory of  Germany's  greatest  classic  poets.  Above 
the  music-gallery  are  medallions  representing  the 
leading  scenes  in  Wieland's  "  Oberon."  From  an 
opposite  side,  the  Virgin,  life-sized,  appears  at  the 
pillow  of  the  sleeper  Herder.  Beneath  a  portrait 
of  Schiller  are  groups  from  "  Jeanne  d'Arc  "  and 
"  Marie  Stuart."  A  huge  mythological  tableau 
from  the  second  part  of  "  Faust  "  covers  the  whole 
side  of  the  room  dedicated  to  Goethe.  These  fres- 
coes, executed  by  a  well-known  Munich  copyist, 
are  from  designs  in  the  archducal  palace  at  Wei- 
mar— designs  classical  throughout  Germany.  To 
Miss  Vivash  and  her  friends  they  are  caviare. 
Miss  Vivash,  during  the  past  season,  has  deeply 
studied  her  own  likeness,  in  oil  and  in  chalk,  at 
the  Royal  Academy.  She  has  also  coached  her- 
self in  the  history  of  "  Andromeda  "  (the  title  of 
a  picture  for  which  she  and  other  town  beauties 
sat  as  models),  and  has  visited,  chiefly  on  wet  Sun- 
days, the  studios  of  several  fashionable  painters 
of  note.  What  greater  knowledge  of  the  fine  arts, 
unless  they  be  connected  with  bismuth,  antimony, 
and  pearl-powder,  should  poor,  half -educated 
Beauty  need  ?  What  should  she  know  of  Goethe, 


CHAFF.  59 

Schiller — of  paintings  that  never  hung  in  Bur- 
lington Street — of  an  artist  not  introduced  to 
her  at  the  annual  conversazione  of  the  Royal 
Academy  ? 

Ignorance,  however,  as  in  some  other  cases  we 
wot  of,  does  but  lend  a  sharper  edge  to  adverse 
criticism.  Was  ever  such  grouping  seen — such 
chiaroscuro,  such  anatomy  ?  At  last,  round  the 
throat  of  one  of  the  ruddy-locked  nymphs  in 
"  Oberon,"  Vivian  descries  what  she  affirms  to  be 
a  coral  necklace — in  truth,  a  wreath  of  crimson 
roses  ;  but  Beauty's  eyesight  is  conveniently  de- 
fective when  she  lists. 

"  I  declare  this  is  quite  too  adorably  quaint," 
putting  up  her  double  eye-glass,  as  is  her  custom 
whenever  she  would  be  more  than  commonly  su- 
percilious. "  Coral  necklaces  with  hair  to  match, 
are  evidently  the  last  thing  out  in  the  grand  duchy 
of  Baden." 

And,  posing  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  she 
encounters  Jeanne's  dark,  imploring  glance  with 
her  stoniest  stare — a  stare  that  lengthened  prac- 
tice, the  remembrance  of  countless  feminine  cru- 
elties recked  upon  herself,  have  brought  to  per- 
fection. 

The  child  feels  every  secret  of  her  life — such 
innocent  secrets  as  they  are — pierced  through  by 
those  pale  eyes,  those  double  glasses.  Every 
separate  bead  in  her  luckless  necklace  seems  to 
burn  like  a  coal  of  fire  round  her  throat. 


60  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  These  primitive  customs  really  take  one  back 
centuries,"  drawls  Beauty,  without  removing  her 
gaze  from  her  victim's  face.  "  I  remember  my 
grandmamma  telling  how,  in  her  young  days,  the 
female  infant  invariably  received  a  coral  necklace 
from  its  godfather  and  godmother.  Indeed,  I 
think  it  stood,  like  King  Charles  in  the  oak,  in 
the  rubric. — Pray,  Mamselle  Ange,  as  we  are 
speaking  on  serious  subjects,  shall  we  have  an  op- 
portunity of  attending  Anglican  service  on  Sun- 
days ?  One  would  like  to  study  the  manners  and 
customs  of  the  British  settler  with  impartiality." 

It  takes  Ange  long  to  answer  the  question. 
A  person  with  normal  convolutions  of  brain  might 
reply  briefly  that  there  exists  neither  Anglican 
church  nor  Anglican  service  within  a  radius  of  a 
dozen  miles.  Mamselle  Ange's  mental  processes, 
like  her  millinery,  have  in  them  some  latent  laby- 
rinthine twist  which  forces  her  ever  into  the  use 
of  twenty  words  where  one  would  be  sufficient. 
Irrelevant  anecdotes,  dating  back  to  her  own  con- 
firmation; outlying  sketches,  in  the  main  unfa- 
vorable, of  Continental  chaplains,  their  wives, 
their  characters,  their  debts  ;  a  dissertation  on 
the  relative  merits  of  the  Calvinist  and  Lutheran 
beliefs,  with  a  passing  fling  at  what  she  is  pleased 
to  term  the  Materialism  made  Easy  of  the  day — 
all  these  things  does  she  manage,  by  fair  means 
or  foul,  to  bring  in,  Miss  Yivash  listening,  with 
half-closed  eyes,  with  yawns  that  she  is  not  at 


HEINE'S  LOVE-SONGS.  61 

the  smallest  trouble  to  dissemble.  At  length,  just 
as  Ange  pauses  for  breath  rather  than  lack  of  sub- 
ject-matter, a  ring  comes  at  the  outer,  seldom-used 
bell  of  the  Schloss. 

"  A  visitor  at  the  big  gate  !  "  exclaims  little 
Jeanne,  her  cheeks  reddening. 

"  It  must  be  the  ladies  from  the  Residenz," 
cries  Mamselle  Ange.  "  Luckily,  the  guest-room 
for  once  is  in  order.  The  ladies  from  the  Resi- 
denz or  the  Herr  Baron  von  Katzenellenbogen." 

And  then  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opens, 
and  on  the  threshold — dusty,  travel-stained,  more 
poverty-stricken  in  his  dress  than  usual — there 
appears  the  master — Wolfgang. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HEINE'S   LOVE -SONGS. 

"  HEAVEN  bless  and  save  us — the  master  !  " 
exclaims  Ange,  in  a  disappointed  aside.  "  Mr. 
Wolfgang,  your  humble  servant.  You  are  un- 
aware, sir,  doubtless,  that  you  rang  at  the  visitor's 
bell  ?  But  for  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  we  should 
have  believed  it  to  be  a  message  from  the  Resi- 
denz." 

"  I  apologize  for  my  own  identity,"  says  Wolf- 
gang, with  good  humor,  and  giving  a  quick  look 
at  the  faces  assembled  round  the  table.  "My 


62  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

business  at  Leipsic  Fair  having  ended  unexpected- 
ly soon,"  he  adds,  turning  to  Ange,  "  I  took  the 
liberty  of  visiting  Schloss  Egmont  on  my  road 
home. — Fraulein  Jeanne,  I  have  brought  you  a 
new  lesson-book." 

He  deposits  a  little  paper-covered  volume  be- 
side the  girl's  plate — Heine's  "  Love-Songs  "  (the 
hardest  lesson  of  Jeanne  Dempster's  life  may,  per- 
chance, be  learned  between  the  lines  of  those 
pages)  ;  then,  uninvited,  draws  up  one  of  the  em- 
blazoned Schloss  Egmont  chairs,  and  seats  himself 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table  to  Mamselle 
Ange. 

"  Quite  a  relief  to  one's  eyes,"  cries  Lady  Pa- 
mela, in  her  hearty  voice.  "  That  empty  ghosts' 
place  has  been  calling  out,  loudly,  for  an  occu- 
pant— but  five  is  the  most  impracticable  of  num- 
bers !  " 

She  glances  with  kindly  welcome  at  the  mas- 
ter's handsome,  high-bred  face ;  and  Ange,  un- 
thawing,  goes  through  a  tardy  ceremony  of  intro- 
duction :  "  Our  very  deserving  friend  and  instruc- 
tor, Herr  Wolfgang,  from  Freiburg.  Lady  Pa- 
mela Lawless — Miss  Vivash." 

Up  to  this  instant,  Beauty's  sleek  head,  at  its 
best  three-quarters  angle,  has  been  studiously 
posed  for  Wolfgang's  benefit.  She  turns  at  the 
mention  of  her  name,  and  gives  him  —  not  a 
straightforward  look  ;  Miss  Yivash  never  opens 
an  attack  with  the  point-blank  artillery  of  those 


HEINE'S  LOVE-SONGS.  63 

pale  eyes  of  hers — she  gives  him  a  downward 
bend  of  the  white  throat,  a  lowering  of  the  lids, 
a  smile  furtive,  momentary,  but  sweet,  "  luscious 
to  the  taste,"  as  the  dictionaries  define  the  word, 
exceedingly. 

Mamselle  Ange,  with  her  most  marked  air 
of  patronage,  desires  Hans  to  set  another  wine- 
glass. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  you  shall  taste 
our  Affenthaler  ;  I  will  take  no  refusal.  You  are 
looking  warm  after  your  journey — I  know  what 
third-class  traveling  must  be — and  of  course  the 
Affenthaler  of  Schloss  Egmont  is  not  tischwein, 
poor  vinegary  stuff,  such  as  they  serve  you  in  the 
Freiburg  eating-houses." 

She  turns,  with  a  Lord  Burleigh  signal  to 
Hans,  who  discreetly  fills  the  master's  glass  half 
full.  Wolfgang,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur, 
holds  the  wine  up  to  the  light,  then  sets  it  down 
untasted. 

"  The  Affenthaler  has  lost  its  color,"  he  re- 
marks, a  little  absently.  "  It  should  have  been 
drunk  a  dozen  years  ago.  These  wines  of  the 
Margravinate  have  no  old  age." 

"  Mr.  Wolfgang — sir  !  "  cries  out  Ange,  her 
very  cap -ribbons  standing  on  end  at  this  out- 
spoken heresy,  "I  understand  you  to  give  an 
opinion  that  our  Affenthaler — " 

"Is  no  longer  in  its  freshest  bloom  of  maturity. 
Precisely  so.  If  you  will  let  me  counsel  you,  Mam- 


64  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

selle  Ange,  try  rather  the  Schloss  Johannisberg. 
Even  in  Freiburg,"  says  Wolfgang,  with  unruffled 
bonhomie,  "  even  at  our  poor  tables  in  the  Freiburg 
guest-houses,  the  Rhine  wines  laid  in  by  the  late 
Count  von  Egmont  are  renowned." 

Ange's  soul  is  too  shaken  by  such  audacity  for 
her  to  answer.  Taking  bold  advantage  of  her  si- 
lence, the  master  turns  to  Elspeth,  and  bids  her 
run  down  to  the  cellar  for  a  bottle  of  Schloss  Jo- 
hannisberg. "  Or,  indeed,  it  were  best  that  I  see 
to  its  transport  myself,"  he  remarks,  as  the  serv- 
ing-maiden, with  open  mouth  and  eyes,  stares  im- 
ploringly at  her  mistress  for  orders. 

"  Mamselle  Ange,  I  fear  that  you  must  intrust 
me  with  the  cellar-keys.  One  would  tremble  for 
the  fate  of  our  Johannisberg  if  'twere  left  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  Hans  or  Elspeth." 

And,  ere  Ange  can  recover  her  faculties  suffi- 
ciently to  contest  the  point,  he  is  gone,  Elspeth 
following — her  face  peony-red  at  having  public 
attention  centered  on  her,  and  with  the  kites' 
wings  of  her  Sontagschleif e  seeming  to  stiffen  and 
blacken  as  she  walks. 

"You  are  better  off  for  visitors  than  one 
might  expect,"  observes  Miss  Vivash,  condescend- 
ing, for  the  first  time  since  she  entered  Schloss 
Egmont,  to  address  herself  directly  to  Jeanne. 
"  Mr.  Wolfgang  is  a  neighbor,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Wolfgang  is  Jeanne's  master,"  cries 
Mamselle  Ange.  "  A  painstaking  creature  in  the 


HEINE'S  LOVE-SONGS.  65 

main,  and  most  moderate  in  his  terms,  whatever 
one  may  think  of  his  manners.  Considering  that 
the  child  only  began  to  study  with  him  eight 
weeks  ago,  her  progress  is  remarkable — indeed, 
for  my  part,  I  think  they  go  too  far.  Girls  shone 
in  society,  yes,  and  settled  respectably  in  life, 
without  Latin  or  Euclid,  or  Shakespeare  readings, 
when  I  was  young.  But,  you  see,  when  little 
Jeanne  takes  one  of  her  fancies,  she  can  learn  as 
quick  as  she  likes.  I  have  been  grounding  her, 
myself,  in  the  polite  branches  since  she  was  three 
years  old  ;  and  still,  until  Mr.  Wolfgang  ap- 
peared— " 

"  Ah  !  little  Jeanne  took  one  of  her  fancies 
to  Mr.  Wolfgang,  doubtless  ?  "  interrupts  Vivian, 
with  her  slow  smile,  in  her  tone  of  suppressed 
banter. 

"  Mr.  Wolfgang  has  the  art  of  making  her 
work,  at  all  events  ;  I  don't  know  in  what  the 
fascination  lies,"  says  our  good  Ange  simply, 
"  but  there  is  certainly  something  about  the  man 
that  forces  you  into  obeying  him.  To  begin  at 
the  beginning  :  I  know  no  more  of  Mr.  Wolfgang 
than  I  know  of  Adam,  and  had  no  idea  of  getting 
Jeanne  a  master  (though  Count  Paul  has  always 
been  most  generous  as  regards  her  education), 
when,  one  fine  evening,  he  appeared — " 

"  Mamselle  Ange  ! "  interrupts  the  girl,  crim- 
soning with  shame.  "  The  history  concerns  our- 
selves and  only  ourselves.  You  engaged  Mr. 
5 


66  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

Wolfgang  as  a  teacher ;  he  has  fulfilled  his  en- 
gagement punctually.  That  is  enough." 

"  Oh,  not  near  enough  ! "  cries  Vivian  with 
ingenuous  curiosity.  "  I  do  so  love  the  details  of 
these  little  family  historiettes  !  You  were  speak- 
ing of  a  certain  fine  evening,  mamselle  "  (and  she 
turns  with  an  air  of  suave  impertinence  to  Ange). 
"  You  know  no  more  of  the  fascinating  Wolfgang 
than  you  know  of  Adam,  although  Count  Paul 
had  been  most  generous  as  regards  Jeanne's  edu- 
cation, when — he  appeared." 

"Yes,  our  first  parent  appeared,"  echoes  Sir 
Christopher,  in  his  thin,  solemn  voice.  "  The 
situation  is  worthy  of  Milton." 

"  It  was  toward  evening,  I  know,"  says  Ange, 
unconscious  that  she  ministers,  in  her  garrulity, 
to  her  guests'  diversion  and  to  Jeanne's  torture. 
"  I  had  been  trying  to  settle  up  the  haymakers' 
wages  with  Hans  (the  lad  is  as  honest  a  German 
as  breathes,  but,  take  it  which  way  one  will,  I 
can  never  come  nearer  him  than  a  mark  and  some 
pfennigs  in  an  addition  sum)  when  Elspeth  brought 
in  a  card  :  '  Wolfgang.  English  teacher,  from 
Freiburg.'  And  before  I  could  say  yes  or  no  as 
to  whether  I  would  see  the  man,  he  had  followed 
her  in.  'A poor  student  of  good  birth ' ;  all  your 
reduced  people  tell  the  same  story  ;  '  would  teach 
English,  mathematics,  classics,'  Heaven  knows 
what  besides,  on  any  terms  I  liked  to  give,  and 
sought  my  patronage  —  my  patronage!  —  as  a 


AT   TWICKENHAM.  67 

stepping-stone  to  the  noble  families  of  the  neigh- 
borhood— " 

"  And  you  bestowed  upon  me  the  best  of  all 
patronage,"  cries  Wolfgang,  who,  unseen  by  Ange, 
has  at  this  moment  reentered  the  room.  "  Noble 
families  loom  as  far  away  in  the  distance  as  ever, 
but  I  have  had  Fraulein  Jeanne  for  a  pupil.  Now 
for  our  Schloss  Johannisberg."  He  is  tenderly 
supporting  a  cobwebbed,  wicker-swathed  bottle 
on  his  arm.  "We  will  see  if  the  jade  Rumor 
speaks  true  as  to  the  contents  of  the  Yon  Egmont 
wine-bins." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AT     TWICKENHAM. 

WITH  a  sense  of  relief  so  intense  as  to  border 
on  pain,  Jeanne  Dempster  escapes,  at  length,  into 
the  cool,  green  quiet  of  the  gardens. 

Sky,  earth,  and  air  seem  to  greet  her  with  a 
friendlier  welcome  than  their  wont.  She  can 
hear  the  mill-stream  rushing  downward  from  the 
Blauen  Mountains,  the  tinkle  of  far-off  cattle- 
bells  on  the  upland  slopes  ;  can  hear  the  wild 
doves  cooing  themselves  to  rest  among  the  for- 
ests. Away  to  the  right,  above  a  stretch  of  red- 
dish-purple vineyard,  she  can  discern  the  point  of 
road  where  the  other  night,  as  on  many  a  night 
before,  she  watched  the  master's  figure  disappear- 


68  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

ing  in  the  starlight.  The  dew-kissed  flower-bor- 
ders smell  sweet ;  already  a  rim  of  young  moon 
shines,  silver  white,  upon  the  lustrous  heaven. 
Jeanne's  new  lesson-book,  Heine's  "  Love-Songs," 
is  in  her  hand.  She  opens  it  at  hazard  —  say, 
rather,  under  the  master's  guidance,  for  a  slip  of 
paper  marks  a  certain  page  : 

"  Maiden  with  the  lips  so  rosy, 

With  the  eyes  so  softly  bright, 
Sweetest  maiden,  I  keep  thinking, 
Thinking  of  you  day  and  night." 

It  seems  to  the  girl  that  Wolfgang's  voice 
reads  aloud,  first  in  German,  then  in  extempo- 
rized English  rhyme,  as  is  his  custom.  She  for- 
gets her  country-made  dress,  her  coral  beads,  for- 
gets the  burning  sense  of  shame  in  her  own  ex- 
istence that,  helped  by  Vivian's  eyes,  has  tortured 
her  during  the  mortal  hour  and  a  half  of  dinner. 
Another  strip  of  paper  guides  her  a  page  or  two 
further  on : 

"  The  flowers,  they  prattle  and  whisper, 

With  pity  my  lips  they  scan ; 
Oh,  be  not  unkind  to  our  sister, 
Thou  pale-faced,  woe-worn  man !  " 

Jeanne  Dempster  reads  the  lines  under  her 
breath  with  a  sense  of  pleasure  such  as  no  verse 
of  poetry  has  ever  yielded  her  before.  Not  heed- 
ing which  path  she  takes,  she  makes  her  way  loi- 


AT  TWICKENHAM.  69 

teringly  to  the  western  terrace,  pauses  beneath  the 
shadow  of  a  thickly  trellised  arch  of  juniper,  and 
finds — a  pair  of  arms  outheld,  in  the  twilight,  to 
receive  her. 

"  Mr.  Wolfgang — sir  !  "  she  exclaims,  starting 
back  hurriedly  from  the  threatened  embrace. 

The  master  takes  possession  of  her  hands. 
He  bends  down,  and,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
well  knows  the  language  he  is  reading,  peruses 
her  face. 

"  Have  you  been  busy  during  my  absence  as  I 
desired,  little  Jeanne  ?  Have  you  prepared  good 
store  of  Latin  and  Euclid  for  my  return  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  busy  getting  ready  for  the  visi- 
tors— busy  among  polishing-brushes,  cobwebs,  and 
beeswax,"  answers  Jeanne  demurely.  "  I  have 
been  working  every  moment  of  my  time — for 
Count  Paul,  not  for  you." 

"  For  Count  Paul,  not  for  me  !  Well,"  cries 
Wolfgang,  with  a  movement  of  impatience,  "  what 
else  should  I  expect  ?  As  well  accustom  myself, 
beforehand,  to  the  fate  that  is  inevitable  !  You 
feel  rewarded  already,  I  hope,  mein  Fraulein. 
Paul  von  Egmont's  English  guests  come  up  to 
your  expectations  ?  You  are  charmed  with  Lon- 
don millinery,  dazzled  by  London  wit,  by  London 
beauty  ?  " 

Jeanne  is  mute ;  and  the  master,  after  a  few 
moments  have  passed  by  in  silence,  repeats  his 
question. 


70  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  To  value  millinery  and  wit  at  their  right 
value,  one  would  need  higher  education  than 
mine,  sir."  And  now,  with  a  sudden  effort,  the 
girl  breaks  free  ;  she  turns  her  head  away  from 
her  companion.  "  Beauty  speaks  for  itself.  One 
needs  no  teaching  to  appreciate  it." 

"  And  Miss  Vivash  is  exquisitely  handsome, 
ausgezeichnet  schone,"  remarks  Wolfgang,  laps- 
ing, as  he  always  does  when  a  subject  moves  him 
strongly,  into  German.  "And  gracious,  conde- 
scending as  she  is  handsome.  The  lips  of  a  Greek 
statue,  a  throat  of  marble,  a  forehead — Fraulein 
Jeanne  "  (coming  back,  with  a  visible  effort,  from 
poetry  to  prose),  "  we  are  losing  the  light,  such 
remnant  of  light  as  there  is.  Let  us  set  to  work 
at  once." 

"  I  have  no  work  ready,"  she  answers  him 
shortly.  "  I  have  had  other  things  to  attend  to 
than  Latin  and  Euclid,  and  the  loss  of  one  even- 
ing can  not  signify  to  any  one." 

"You  think  so?"  returns  Wolfgang,  taking 
her  "  lesson-book  "  from  her  hand.  "  When  you 
are  a  few  years  older  you  will  know  how  much 
the  loss  of  one  evening,  of  one  minute,  can  signify 
under  certain  circumstances.  As  you  have  neg- 
lected more  important  studies,  we  can,  at  least,  go 
through  some  German  reading.  Heine's  songs,  as 
we  have  them  here,  will  serve  as  an  exercise." 

He  returns  her  the  volume,  opened  at  a  fresh 
page — the  "  Ballad  of  Lurlei." 


AT   TWICKENHAM.  71 

"  *  I  know  not  what  trouble  haunts  me,' "  re- 
peats Wolfgang,  looking  over  his  pupil's  shoulder. 
"  Ah  !  here  we  have  something  that  will  do  for 
us.  Here  we  have  a  gem  in  simplest  setting — a 
cameo  in  printing-ink.  Turn  your  face  round — 
so  !  Forget  that  I  am  your  master,  forget  alto- 
gether that  I  exist,  and  give  every  word  its  due 
accent.  When  you  have  read  the  poem  through, 
aloud,  we  can  parse  it." 

And  with  this  the  lesson  begins  :  Heine's  pas- 
sionate verse  read  f alteringly  in  the  pulse-stirring 
gloaming,  by  a  girl  of  seventeen,  her  heart  already 
feverish  with  the  first  throbs  of  jealousy,  and  un- 
der the  tutorship  of  the  man  she  loves  !  — 

"  I  know  not  what  thoughts  oppress  me, 

And  make  me  eerie  and  low ; 
A  legend  it  troubles  and  haunts  me — 
A  legend  of  long  ago  !  " 

"'I  know  not  what  thoughts  oppress  me,'" 
repeats  Wolfgang,  when  Jeanne  has  stumbled 
through  her  parsing.  "  Grammar  is  not  your 
strong  point,  mein  Fraulein.  Your  nominatives 
and  accusatives  are  shaky,  your  views  as  to  sub- 
ject and  object  reprehensible.  But  you  know 
how  to  read  poetry.  Learn  as  much  of  Heine 
as  you  choose  by  heart  for  your  next  lesson, 
and—" 

There  comes  the  sound  of  a  drawling  voice, 
the  crunch  of  steps  is  heard  upon  the  gravel,  and 


72  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Lady  Pamela  and  Vivian,  arm-in-arm,  approach 
slowly  along  the  terrace. 

Lady  Pamela  is  habited  still  in  her  favorite 
colors,  red  picked  out  with  white,  like  a  Queen 
Anne's  mansion.  Beauty's  dress  is  of  opal  silk, 
tight-fitting  as  wax,  shining,  undulating,  with  ev- 
ery movement  of  her  supple  limbs.  Miss  Yivash 
wears  an  emerald  bracelet — that  has  a  history — 
on  her  left  wrist ;  an  emerald  star — that  has  also  a 
history — in  her  classically  sleek,  ebon  hair.  The 
abundant  outlines  of  her  shoulders  and  throat 
stand  out  clear  against  the  milky  sky.  The  ten- 
der twilight  refines  the  over-large  lips,  supplies  a 
passing  softness  to  the  pale,  cold  eyes.  It  is  one 
of  the  Hyde  Park  goddess's  handsomest  mo- 
ments. 

"  How  quite  too  delightful  this  is,  Pamela ! 
Such  freshness,  such  purity,  after  our  four  weary 
months  of  London  fever."  She  sees  Wolfgang  and 
his  companion  at  a  glance,  and  resolves,  with  the 
slakeless  thirst  for  conquest  that  is  in  her,  to  pose 
on  the  instant,  for  the  master's  benefit.  "  Where 
can  our  good  little  Jeanne  have  vanished  ?  Not 
a  bad  sort  of  child,  truly,  putting  looks  aside,  and 
considering  her  plebeian  surroundings." 

"Plebeian  surroundings  —  when  she  has  the 
Herr  Wolfgang  for  a  master ! "  suggests  Lady 
Pamela,  with  meaning. 

Is  the  feeling  between  Beauty  and  her  chap- 
eron one  of  hatred  or  of  love  ?  Are  they  friends 


AT  TWICKENHAM.  73 

or  foes  ?  I,  who  write,  can  not  answer  that  ques- 
tion. That  they  stand  toward  each  other  in  the  rel- 
ative amity  of  clever  whist-partners  ;  know  when 
to  lead  through  strong  suits,  or  up  to  weak  ones  ; 
when  to  throw  away  a  card,  finesse,  call  for  trumps, 
or,  if  need  be,  revoke,  is  incontestable. 

"  I  thought,  my  dear  Vivian,  you  considered 
him—" 

"  I  consider  that  Mr.  Wolfgang  belongs  to  the 
aristocracy  of  intellect,"  remarks  Beauty,  with 
effusion.  She  keeps  a  little  useful  stock  of  such 
platitudes  ever  ready  for  use.  "  He  has  that  look 
of  strength  one  does  so  adore  in  a  man  about  the 
forehead,  and  a  manner  that  only  wants  the  polish 
of  high  society  to  be  charming." 

At  this  point  Wolfgang  steps  briskly  forward 
out  of  the  shadow.  There  is  a  kind  of  suppressed 
impatience  in  the  movement,  thinks  Jeanne  with 
a  beating  heart ;  yet  that  his  vanity  is  pleasantly 
stimulated  who  shall  doubt  ?  Can  flattery  from 
lips  carved  on  such  a  model  as  Vivian's  fail  of 
tasting  sweet,  whether  the  dose  be  administered 
intentionally  or  by  hazard  ? 

"  Mr.  Wolfgang  !  How  you  made  me  jump  !  " 
cries  the  chaperon.  "  I  am  so  ridiculously  nervous, 
such  a  martyr  to  timidity  !  "  Lady  Pamela  Law- 
less rides  as  straight  to  hounds,  cuts  out  her  work 
as  valiantly,  as  any  man  in  the  shires  ;  she  also 
during  the  present  season  went  to  a  fancy-dress 
ball  in  the  character  of  an  hussar,  spurs,  boots, 


74  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

and  all. — "Ah,  you  here,  Miss  Dempster?  Sup- 
pose you  lionize  me  a  little  about  the  premises  ? 
Miss  Vivash  is — Miss  Yivash  is  fatigued  after  her 
journey,  and  will  wait  .for  us  awhile  on  the  ter- 
race—  I  have  no  doubt,  under  Mr.  Wolfgang's 
care." 

Saying  which,  lady  Pamela  rests  her  hand  on 
Jeanne's  arm  ;  then,  with  good-humored  force, 
leads  the  girl  briskly  away  into  a  side-path,  leav- 
ing her  friend  in  the  possession  of  the  field,  and 
of  Wolfgang. 

"  And  pray  what  were  you  doing,  Fraulein  In- 
nocence," she  remarks,  the  moment  they  are  out 
of  ear-shot — "you  and  your  good-looking  Herr 
Preceptor — alone  in  the  dark  ?  " 

"I — was  taking  my  lesson,  madame,"  stam- 
mers Jeanne  guiltily.  "  Only,  as  we  did  not  ex- 
pect the  master  till  to-morrow,  I  had  prepared  no 
mathematics  or  Latin  grammar,  and  so — " 

"And  so — it  is  unnecessary  for  you  to  say 
6  madame,'  or  to  look  frightened.  No  one  living  is 
frightened  at  me." 

"Mr.  Wolfgang  turned  it  into  a  reading-les- 
son. We  had  just  finished  Heine's  'Ballad  of 
Lurlei'  when  you  and  Miss  Vivash  came  up 
to  us." 

"  Mathematics — Latin — Heine  !  It  strikes  me 
forcibly,  child,  in  spite  of  your  modest  rustic  airs, 
that  you  are  a  prodigy." 

"  It  strikes  me  that  you  like  to  laugh  at  me," 


AT  TWICKENHAM.  75 

says  little  Jeanne — "  you  and  Miss  Vivash,  with 
your  London  ideas,  London  education — " 

"  Education  !  "  interrupts  Lady  Pamela  brisk- 
ly. "  Listen  to  my  autobiography,  my  dear,  told 
in  a  dozen  words,  and  be  wise.  I  come  of  poor 
but  not  over-respectable  parents,  Jeanne,  both  of 
whom  left  this  wicked  world  before  I  had  well  en- 
tered it,  and,  being  an  exceedingly  hideous  child, 
and  portionless,  was  early  trained  by  the  relatives 
who  had  to  support  me  in  the  way  wherein  I 
should  go.  ( Providence  has  been  pleased  to  deal 
you  a  sorry  hand,  Pamela,'  Lord  Vauxhall  used 
to  say,  looking  plaintively  at  my  ugly  face  (Lord 
Yauxhall  is  my  maternal  grandpapa  ;  he  broke  his 
first  wife's  heart,  has  shut  up  the  second  in  an 
asylum,  and  takes  off  his  hat  with  the  best  grace 
of  any  man  in  Europe).  *  But  we  have  the  evi- 
dence of  history  to  show  that  conduct  is  fate. 
Fine  play,  in  the  long  run,  will  hold  its 'own 
against  trumps.  Miss  Rebecca  Sharp  had  green 
eyes  and  thin  arms,  yet  she  got  on,  all  things  con- 
sidered, better  than  her  fair  but  virtuous  friend 
Amelia.  For  Miss  Sharp,  as  you  will  do  well  to 
bear  in  mind,  educated  herself  on  principle.'  With 
the  spirit  of  generous  emulation  thus  awa- 
kened," continues  Lady  Pamela,  "  I  also  educated 
myself  on  principle.  My  grandpapa  in  those 
days  held  a  little  back-stair  appointment  pertain- 
ing to  royalty,  and  used  to  enliven  his  fireside 
with  the  newest  court  scandals  and  whispers  of 


76  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

the  clubs.  This  enlarged  and  strengthened  my 
youthful  mind.  One  of  his  sons,  poor  Uncle  Pa- 
get,  until  ruin  and  an  Ostend  lodging  overtook 
him,  affected  jockey  dom,  and  would  give  me  a 
mount  whenever  any  abnormally  vicious  three- 
year-old  had  to  be  broken  to  the  habit.  This 
set  up  my  figure.  For  my  beau-ideal  in  litera- 
ture I  had  the  wickedest  of  the  weeklies,  and 
Zola's  novels ;  for  my  beau-ideal  in  art,  the  ex- 
quisite face  enameling  of  my  three  maiden  aunts, 
the  Ladies  Yauxhall.  I  learned  to  whistle  rather 
nicely  to  the  piano  ;  could  tell  a  high-flavored 
story  with  almost  as  much  point  as  my  grandpapa 
himself  ;  and  at  nineteen  years  of  age — " 

"  The  story  surely  does  not  end  here  ?  "  Jeanne 
asks,  as  her  companion  stops  short. 

"At  nineteen  years  of  age,"  goes  on  Lady 
Pamela,  in  a  tragic  voice,  "  I  married  poor  Mr. 
Lawless,  a  Yorkshire  squire,  half  a  century  older 
than  myself,  and  a  martyr  to  gout  and  jealousy. 
There  came  an  interlude  of  dull  country-houses, 
flannel  bandages,  and  Othello-like  scenes  ;  and 
then,  at  two-and-twenty,  I  found  myself  launched 
in  London  life,  free.  From  that  date  forth,  even 
my  grandpapa  has  been  proud  of  my  progress. 
I  am  quick,  like  all  gamins  who  have  been  town- 
tossed  in  their  infancy,  and  I  have  sufficient  con- 
versational aptness  to  smatter  about  most  things 
well  enough  for  my  station.  Whatever  subject 
is  up — the  latest  imperial  policy,  the  latest  suburb- 


AT   TWICKENHAM.  77 

an  murder,  pictures,  bonnets,  Irish  members,  yes, 
or  even  the  last  volume  of  Advanced  Thought,  at 
the  libraries — I  have  only  to  listen  to  the  ideas 
of  some  cleverer  person  than  myself  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  then  retail  them,  with  a  certain 
air  of  originality,  as  my  own,  at  the  next  dinner- 
party I  go  to.  I  have  no  intellect,  really." 

There  is  something  touching  in  the  way  this 
admission  is  volunteered.  Jeanne  feels  her  heart 
beginning  to  warm  toward  Lady  Pamela. 

"  To  literature  I  am  honestly  indifferent.  Art 
I  detest.  Pictures  cause  a  strain  on  the  muscles 
of  the  neck  which  books,  at  least,  do  not.  A  good 
dinner,  a  Paris  milliner,  high-stepping  horses,  well- 
looking  partners  —  these  are  thy  gods,  O  Israel  ! 
These  are  the  gods  of  Lady  Pamela  Lawless,  and 
people  must  either  take  Lady  Pamela  Lawless  as 
she  is  or  leave  her  alone.  In  the  majority  of  cases, 
they  seem  tolerably  well  disposed  to  take  her  as 
she  is." 

Lady  Pamela's  whimsical  talk,  whatever  weigh- 
tier qualities  it  may  lack,  possesses  the  fascination 
of  suggestiveness.  As  she  pours  forth  the  flood 
of  quick  nonsense  which  she  calls  her  "  autobiog- 
raphy," a  whole  new  world  opens  itself  in  posse 
before  Jeanne's  thoughts.  Here,  amid  the  wild 
solitude  of  the  pine-forest,  without  young  com- 
panionship, in  a  climate  that  for  six  months  in 
the  year  holds  her  prisoner  within  the  four  walls 
of  Schloss  Egmont,  the  child's  existence  (until 


78  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

the  last  eight  weeks)  has  perforce  been  colorless, 
passive.  A  passage  of  Beethoven  rendered  by 
the  village  Philharmonic,  the  smell  of  April's 
first  violets,  four  little  lines  of  Heinrich  Heine's 
— from  sources  like  these  have  sprung  the  keenest 
pleasures  of  her  lot.  The  sense  of  action,  of  per- 
sonal participation  in  the  great  human  comedy, 
is  unknown  to  her ;  and,  I  must  confess,  Lady 
Pamela's  epitomized  description  of  a  highly- 
strung  town  life  fires  her  imagination  not  un- 
pleasantly. A  Paris  milliner,  high  -  stepping 
horses,  good  dinners,  well-looking  partners  ! — in 
what  does  she,  Jeanne  Dempster,  differ  from  her 
fellows,  that  such  delights,  had  she  but  the  chance 
of  sharing  in  them,  should  charm  her  not  ? 

"  You  have  got  my  portrait,  drawn  by  my 
own  hand,  framed  and  glazed,"  says  Lady  Pamela 
lightly.  "  In  return,  explain  to  me  the  reasons 
for  your  own  existence.  But  in  three  words, 
Jeanne  !  People  who  lead  molluscan  lives,  sea- 
shore or  fields,  or  that  sort  of  thing,  are  always 
beset  by  the  frightful  vice  of  prolixity.  Who  is 
Mamselle  Ange  ?  Who  are  you?  What  are 
your  relations  toward  Paul  von  Egmont  ?  And 
do  you  and  the  good-looking  master  talk  of  other 
things  than  Latin  and  mathematics  in  the  twi- 
light?" 

For  a  second  Jeanne's  presence  of  mind  fairly 
forsakes  her. 

"  You  must  allow  me  more  than  three  words 


AT   TWICKENHAM.  79 

for  my  answer,"  she  replies  presently.  "  Who  is 
Mamselle  Ange  ?  The  question  by  itself  would 
require  a  folio." 

"  Then  please  leave  it  alone  !  "  cries  Lady 
Pamela  with  a 'yawn.  "Leave  Mamselle  Ange 
in  damp  felicity  among  the  clouds  ;  she  looks 
toppling  off  the  edge  of  one  already,  does  she 
not  ?  Who  are  you  ?  Do  you  live  here  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  marry  Mr.  —  the  man  with  the 
Titian  face  and  shabby  clothes,  who  at  this  mo- 
ment is  falling  violently  in  love  with  my  friend 
Vivian?" 

Jeanne's  pulse  gives  a  great  leap,  then  stands 
still.  Far  away,  above  the  stiff-cropped  juniper- 
hedges  that  bound  the  terrace,  she  can  descry 
two  figures  pacing  up  and  down,  with  many  a 
pause  and  oft  in  the  quiet  starlight.  On  the  in- 
stant, with  the  swift  pessimism  of  seventeen,  she 
accepts  as  fact  the  cruel  probability  of  Wolf- 
gang's heart  becoming  the  property  of  Miss  Vi- 
vash. 

"  Mamselle  Ange  has  been  Mamselle  Ange,  and 
nothing  else,  as  long  as  I  can  remember.  My 
mother  died  here,  in  the  Black  Forest,  when  I 
was  a  small  child.  Schloss  Egmont  has  been  my 
home  always,  and — " 

"  And  you  will  eventually  marry  the  Herr 
Professor,  of  course,"  cries  Lady  Pamela,  with  a 
yawn  more  prodigious  than  the  last — "  marry 
the  Herr  Professor,  and  look  upon  Kaffee  clacks, 


80  VIVIAN   THE  BEAUTY. 

tobacco-smoke,  and  Wagner's  music  as  the  high- 
est possible  form  of  human  enjoyment.  Mr. 
Wolfgang  will  be  none  the  worse  husband,  my 
dear,  for  having  had  his  peace  destroyed  by  Viv- 
ian in  the  mean  time.  China  and  men's  hearts 
are  all  the  stronger  for  mending,  and,  if  one  is 
positively  destined  to  come  to  grief,  'tis  a  con- 
sideration to  do  so  in  good  company.  Think  of 
all  the  big-wigs,  the  dukes,  poets,  artists,  bishops, 
who  swell  our  Beauty's  list  of  victims  ! " 

"  Dukes,  poets,  artists,  bishops,  and  Sir  Chris- 
topher Marlowe,"  suggests  little  Jeanne,  at  hazard. 

Lady  Pamela  Lawless  pauses  in  her  walk.  She 
turns  her  head  aside  sharply. 

"  Kit  Marlowe  is — a  very  good  friend  of  both 
of  us,  nothing  more.  When  Miss  Vivash  first 
rose  to  the  surface  in  London,  and  I,  thanks  to 
Lord  Yauxhall,  was  promoted  to  be  her  chaperon — 
Beauty  and  the  Beast  our  more  intimate  enemies 
were  good  enough  to  call  us — we  needed,  I  can  tell 
you,  as  many  a  strong  hand  as  might  be  found 
to  keep  us  afloat.  Kit  Marlowe's  was  one  of  the 
strongest.  In  these  latter  days,  you  must  know, 
child,  to  have  a  profile  has  become  a  profession. 
(We  are  an  aesthetic  generation  ;  must  have  our 
Beauties  as  we  have  our  decorative  needlework, 
iridescent  glass,  and  Queen  Anne  furniture.  As 
a  consequence,  the  passport  system  is  abolished  in 
decent  society,  and  warm  manners  and  a  cold 
heart  will  carry  a  pretty  woman  anywhere,  pro- 


AT  TWICKENHAM.  81 

vided  the  pretty  woman  chance  to  be  the  owner 
of  a  Job-like  mate.)  The  existence  of  a  husband," 
continues  Lady  Pamela,  "  makes  the  sternest 
Cornelia  feel  that  her  girls  are,  in  a  certain  sense, 
safe.  *  These  beauties  are  the  pest  of  the  age,' 
Cornelia  will  tell  you  sorrowfully.  '  Still,  I  look 
upon  them  as  a  necessary  evil,  a  kind  of  moral 
lightning-conductor.  (Does  not  one  see  the  crea- 
tures' names  at  the  court  balls?)  As  long  as 
Mr.  Blank  accompanies  his  wife — no  farther,  of 
course,  than  the  lower  landing  on  the  staircase — 
it  is  not  for  me  to  be  censorious.'  Vivian  had  no 
husband,  Job-like  or  otherwise,  and  when  first 
Lord  Yauxhall  pushed  us  into  celebrity,  mammas 
with  families  of  daughters  did  look  shy  at  us.  It 
is  a  truth,  flattering  or  not,  about  which  there  can 
be  no  manner  of  doubt — mammas  with  families  of 
daughters  did  look  shy  at  us." 

"  In  spite  of  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe's  friend- 
ship ?  "  says  Jeanne  Dempster,  as  her  companion 
hesitates. 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  knotty  point — Sir  Christopher 
Marlowe's  friendship.  Some  people  declare  that 
we  have  floated  Sir  Christopher,  others  that  Sir 
Christopher  has  floated  us.  Why,  this  very  last 
month — "  (Lady  Pamela  glances  at  the  two  dis- 
tant figures  on  the  terrace)  "  but  for  a  miracle  of 
mischance,  Vivian  would  have  made  the  best  mar- 
riage of  the  season,  thanks  to  Sir  Christopher's 
good  offices.  You  have  heard  of  Chodd  and 
6 


82  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

Chodd  :  The  thing  is  past  and  gone,  and  a  count 
in  hand  is  worth  a  Chodd  in  the  bush ;  still,  we 
may  as  well  talk  idly  as  be  silent.  My  dear, 
the  Chodds  are  the  great  Birmingham  scissor^  - 
people.  The  Chodds  are  worth  half  a  million 
of  money.  The  Chodds  are  ambitious,  weak  as 
water  where  lords  and  honorables  are  concerned, 
and  deliriously  apoplectic.  Chodd  pbre  took  for 
his  second  wife  my  little  cousin  Lady  Ermengarde 
Yauxhall,  aged  eighteen,  and  died — was  ever  such 
exemplary  conduct  heard  of  ? — within  a  twelve- 
month. Well,  his  son,  Mr.  Samuel  Chodd  (ad- 
mire the  solid  richness  of  those  good  English 
consonants),  met  Vivian  one  fine  day  among 
the  rhododendrons  at  the  Botanical  and  fell  in 
love  with  her.  I  don't  suppose  he  fell  in  love 
really — fancy  a  scissors-man  in  love  !  —  but  Sir 
Christopher,  knowing  and  known  of  all  men, 
walked  Samuel  up  and  down  for  three  quarters 
of  an  hour,  in  sight  of  half  the  fine  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  London,  and  chalked  out  his  line  of 
conduct  for  him.  Poor  Mr.  Chodd  had  not  seen 
domestic  bliss  ensue,  in  his  father's  case,  from  the 
possession  of  an  aristocratic  wife.  It  was  said 
Ermengarde  addressed  Chodd  senior  eight  times, 
exclusive  of  the  marriage  ceremony,  during  the 
eleven  months  in  which  he  had  the  honor  of 
being  an  earl's  daughter's  husband.  So  Sam- 
uel elected  for  beauty — a  throat,  a  wrist  where- 
on to  exhibit  the  Chodd  diamonds  ;  and  under 


AT  TWICKENHAM.  83 

Kit  Marlowe's  guidance  found  it  —  in  Miss  Vi- 
vash." 

"  Who  remains  Miss  Vivash  still  ?  " 
"  Ay.  In  that  resides  the  moral  of  my  story 
— who  remains  Miss  Vivash  still.  Up  to  a  certain 
point  Samuel's  conduct  was  simply  perfect.  He 
was  as  wax  in  the  molder's  hands,  as  the  lamb  led 
to  the  slaughter.  Wherever  we  went  in  public, 
that  was  good  for  him,  we  allowed  Samuel  to  go 
likewise.  We  introduced  him  into  the  celebrated 
'  notoriety  set,'  in  which  everybody  must  have  a 
reputation — of  a  kind  !  We  gave  him  our  photo- 
graphs, we  permitted  him  to  supply  us  with  bou- 
quets and  opera-boxes,  we  even  allowed  him  to 
write  as  many  checks  as  he  chose  for  our  trades- 
people. Aided  by  Lord  Yauxhall,  we  got  his 
name  into  the  fashionable  papers  as  having  dined 
at  such  a  banquet  or  danced — Samuel's  dancing  ! — 
at  such  a  ball.  The  man  rewarded  us  with  the 
usual  black  ingratitude  of  plebeian  human  nature. 
A  party  of  four-in-hands  were  to  assemble  at 
the  Corner  on  a  certain  May  afternoon,  and  drive 
down  to  Twickenham,  where  a  dinner  had  been 
organized  by  Lord  Vauxhall.  To  this  dinner  Mr. 
Chodd  could  not  be  invited.  (I  had  another  en- 
gagement myself.  It  generally  happens  that  I 
have  other  engagements  on  the  occasion  of  grand- 
papa's Twickenham  festivities.)  Samuel  took 
umbrage  ;  gave  himself  airs  of  virtue,  and  us  a 
sermon.  *  The  party  was  not  a  fitting  one  for  his 


84  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

intended  wife.  He  would  allow  her  as  much  lib- 
erty as  any  honest-minded  girl  could  desire,  but 
he  would  not — no/  supplementing  his  opinions  by 
the  very  horriblest  expletives,  'he  would  not  allow 
her  to  go  to  a  Twickenham  dinner,  got  up  by  any 
disreputable  old  lord  of  them  all,  without  himself. 
He  would  never  be  known  in  the  world ' — imagine 
the  creature  having  read  Thackeray — 'as  Mrs. 
Rawdon  Crosbie's  husband  ! '  Vivian  heard  him 
out  with  an  air  of  quiet  contrition,  admired  his 
moral  sentiments,  promised  amendment  for  the 
future,  and  sent  him  away  pacified,  a  moss-rosebud 
pinned  by  her  own  repentant  fingers  in  his  button- 
hole. And  she  went  to  the  dinner  at  the  Orleans  ! 
That  dinner  cost  her  dear.  Samuel  learned  the 
whole  truth  next  morning,  wrote  us  a  letter  in  the 
worst  imaginable  taste,  but,  alas  !  only  too  much 
in  earnest,  and  started  the  same  afternoon  in  his 
yacht  for  Lapland.  Whenever  he  was  more  out 
of  temper  than  usual,  it  had  been  a  foolish  jest 
of  ours  to  say,  c  Try  Lapland.'  On  the  morrow 
of  the  Twickenham  dinner-party  he  followed  our 
advice — with  a  vengeance." 

Lady  Pamela  and  Jeanne  have  by  this  time 
made  the  entire  circuit  of  the  Schloss  gardens. 
Suddenly,  as  the  last  accents  of  the  Chodd  trage- 
dy die  on  Lady  Pamela's  lips,  they  come  in  sight 
of  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe,  outstretched  upon 
the  patch  of  smooth  green  turf  that  borders  the 
moat,  and  violently  flirting,  in  pantomime,  with 


AT   TWICKENHAM.  85 

Elspeth,  whose  ruddy  face  bobs  coquettishly  back- 
ward and  forward  at  one  of  the  basement  win- 
dows. 

Sir  Christopher  springs,  somersaults  rather  to 
his  feet,  on  being  thus  discovered  ;  advances  with 
a  fantastic  kind  of  Lord  Dundreary  run  ;  then 
sinks  on  his  knees  before  Jeanne,  in  an  attitude 
of  stage  despair,  and  lifts  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

The  girl  breaks  loose  from  him,  breathless  with 
indignation. 

"  If  these  be  London  manners,"  she  is  begin- 
ning hotly — 

"  They  be  the  manners  of  Kit  Marlowe,"  cries 
Lady  Pamela,  with  her  careless  laugh.  "  Sir  Chris- 
topher is  a  licensed  jester,  my  dear  simplicity,  and 
no  one,  even  in  squeamish  Babylon,  takes  umbrage 
at  his  fooling.  In  this  generation  of  dullards,  we 
are  only  too  thankful  to  any  harlequin  who  will 
wear  the  cap  and  jingle  the  bells  for  us  gratui- 
tously.— Jingle  them  a  little  now,  Sir  Christopher  ! 
Dance  a  breakdown,  sing  a  burlesque.  Do  some- 
thing that  shall  make  this  miracle  of  propriety 
give  a  hearty  human  laugh." 

"  I  would  rather  make  the  miracle  of  propriety 
thaw  into  a  tender  human  smile,"  says  Kit  Mar- 
lowe. "  A  burlesque,  indeed  !  I  will  melt  Jeanne's 
obdurate  heart  by  the  most  pathetic  ballad  ever 
written  in  the  English  language." 

And  then  in  a  small,  not  unmusical  tenor  voice 
he  trolls  forth  a  verse  or  two  from  one  of  the 


86  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

latest  songs  (ironically  called  comic)  of  the  music- 
halls.  Long  before  it  is  over,  Lady  Pamela,  whose 
yawns  have  ever  advanced  in  a  crescendo  scale, 
has  vanished. 

"Take  me  under  your  protection,  Fraulein 
Jeanne,"  says  Sir  Christopher,  with  solemn  mock 
gallantry.  "  Accept  my  arm,  teach  me  my  way 
about  the  place,  and  let  us  endeavor,  as  far  as 
may  be,  not  to  fall  in  love  with  one  another." 

Little  Jeanne  is  too  shy  to  say  him  nay.  She 
rests  her  slender  finger-tips  on  Sir  Christopher's 
arm,  accompanies  him  along  every  fragrant  bor- 
der, through  every  rose-embowered  terrace  of  the 
vast  old  garden,  and  when,  an  hour  later,  they  re- 
enter  the  house,  is  in  love — not  so  much  with  Sir 
Christopher  Marlowe  as  with  herself,  and  with 
the  universe  in  which  she  holds  an  unimportant 
place  ! 

Wiser  heads,  graver  hearts  than  Jeanne  Demp- 
ster's might  well  surrender  to  the  airy  gayety,  the 
never-ending  animal  spirits  of  Kit  Marlowe.  He 
has  the  effect  upon  your  nerves  of  breezy  morning 
sunshine,  of  May  roses,  of  a  brook's  music,  and,  in 
common  with  most  of  nature's  cheeriest  gifts,  asks 
nothing  from  you  in  return.  Falling  short  of  all 
the  stern  moralities,  all  the  big  aims  of  existence, 
living,  in  fact,  "  beyond  the  diocese  of  the  strict 
conscience,"  he  is  really  the  very  happiest,  most 
happiness-giving  of  human  creatures,  a  flesh-and- 
blood  refutation  of  the  pessimist  philosophers, 


AT  TWICKENHAM.  87 

who  now,  in  this  nineteenth  century,  have  mi- 
grated, after  the  fashion  of  their  kind,  from  Ger- 
many to  Oxford. 

No  moral  dyspepsia,  or  feeling  of  his  own 
pulse,  no  questioning  as  to  whether  life  be  worth 
living  for  Sir  Christopher  !  Life  is  a  game — a 
game  in  which  every  man  eventually  loses  :  wisest 
to  lose  as  slowly  and  as  gracefully  as  one  may. 
This  is  his  creed,  and,  honest  in  his  epicurean 
principles,  he  gathers  honey,  like  the  hymn- 
book  bee,  from  every  opening  flower,  and  is  con- 
tent. 

"The  Mirabels  and  Dorimants  of  comedy," 
said  Elia,  "  must  not  be  judged  in  our  every-day 
law-courts.  They  get  out  of  Christendom  into  a 
land  where  pleasure  is  duty,  and  the  manners  per- 
fect freedom  ;  a  happy  breathing-place  from  the 
burden  of  a  perpetual  moral  questioning." 

Sir  Christopher's  friends — who  that  knows  him 
is  not  his  friend  ? — are  well  disposed  to  give  him 
a  like  benefit  of  clergy. 

"  Little  Kit  Marlowe  is  a  general  benefactor," 
Lady  Pamela  Lawless  has  been  heard  to  declare 
— "  a  tonic,  pro  bono  publico,  a  pick-me-up  for  all 
who  need.  As  well  dissect  a  butterfly  with  a 
tomahawk,  as  well  weigh  sunshine  (oh,  yes,  I 
know  all  about  Mr.  Crookes  and  the  radiometer) 
— as  well  weigh  sunshine  in  a  grocer's  scales,  as 
apply  rule-of -thumb  measurement  to  the  character 
and  motives  of  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe." 


VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 


And  society — with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
it  may  be,  an  elevation  of  the  eyebrow,  a  whisper 
behind  the  fan — society,  on  the  whole,  is  disposed 
to  endorse  the  sentiments  of  Lady  Pamela  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BEWARE  ! 

"  SOCIETY  !  You  have  made  vastly  creditable 
social  progress,  Miss  Dempster,  considering  the 
shortness  of  your  apprenticeship — vastly  credit- 
able, in  truth." 

The  dark  oak  walls  of  Count  Paul's  study  are 
unillumined  by  lamp  or  candle.  Such  light  as  the 
young  moon  yields  falls  full  upon  the  boy's  por- 
trait, upon  the  marble  heads  of  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler above  the  book-shelf.  Beside  an  open  window 
Jeanne  and  her  master,  a  foot  or  two  apart,  are 
deep  in  converse  :  Wolfgang,  cigar  in  hand,  stands 
upon  a  projecting  ledge  or  balcony  that  surrounds 
three  sides  of  the  tower  ;  Jeanne  is  within,  her 
elbows  resting  on  the  sill,  her  face  outstretched 
to  court  the  dewy,  fragrant  freshness  of  the 
night. 

"  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  merit  your  praise,  at 
last,  sir,"  she  remarks  demurely.  "During  the 
last  eight  weeks  I  have  worked  at  participles  and 
declensions,  at  angles  and  right  angles  —  have 


BEWARE !  89 

worked,  to  the  best  of  iny  belief,  well.  This  is 
the  first  time  you  have  been  good  enough  to  en- 
courage me  by  such  a  word  as  'progress.'  I  am 
grateful  to  you." 

And,  raising  herself  to  her  full  height,  Jeanne 
drops  her  master  a  mocking  little  courtesy,  then 
stands  before  the  window  with  meek  face,  with 
arms  crossed,  as  if  in  humility,  upon  her  breast. 

"  Grateful  ?  "  repeats  Wolfgang,  coolly  skep- 
tical. "  Yes,  till  to-night  I  might  have  been  weak 
enough  to  credit  you  with  such  a  feeling  !  I  see 
you  now  as  you  are,  Miss  Dempster  —  open  to 
sweet  words,  won  by  any  idle  coxcomb,  by  any 
cajoling  voice  that  speaks,  like  the  rest." 

"  We  will  leave  gratitude  alone,  sir.  I  am  flat- 
tered, if  you  like  the  expression  better,  by  your 
high  opinion  of  me." 

"  Flattered— by  the  talk  of  Sir  Christopher 
Marlowe,  the  first  empty-brained,  eye-glassed  pop- 
injay who  has  happened  to  cross  your  path." 

Although,  on  common  occasions,  the  master 
speaks  English  admirably,  his  accents,  the  mo- 
ment he  is  moved,  take  a  cadence  unmistakably 
Teutonic.  At  his  pronunciation  of  the  word  pop- 
injay, Jeanne  smiles. 

"  In  English,  sir,  it  is  not  our  custom  to  say 
bobbingjay.  Excuse  my  want  of  politeness,  but 
you  have  so  often  asked  me  to  correct  you,  if  need 
were,  and  these  'i?V  and  <PV  are  really  stum- 
bling-blocks to  a  Chairman  tongue." 


90  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Wolfgang  scans  her  for  a  few  seconds,  grimly 
silent.  "  Jeanne,"  he  then  begins,  flinging  away 
his  cigar,  and,  with  a  quick  spring,  entering  the 
study- window,  "  what  did  yonder  poor  little  dandy 
find  to  say  to  you  during  the  sixty  minutes  or 
more  that  you  and  he  were  walking  about  the 
gardens  alone  in  the  moonlight  ?  " 

"  Sixty  minutes  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  Why,  those 
sixty  minutes  passed  like  a  flash  of  light,"  cries 
Jeanne  artlessly.  "  You  can  not  think  what  pleas- 
ant speeches  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe  made  me — 
how  thoroughly  he  intends  that  we  shall  enjoy 
ourselves  here  at  Schloss  Egmont  during  the  next 
fortnight !  " 

"  And  you  were  enchanted  by  his  intellect,  the 
caustic  depth  of  his  observations,  the  loftiness  of 
his  views,  the  delicate  originality  of  his  wit  ?  " 

"  What  judge  am  I,  sir  ?— I,  who  till  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang came  accidentally  to  the  Schwarzwald,  had 
never  spoken  to  any  man  of  higher  culture  than 
a  wood-cutter !  It  would  be  more  to  the  point 
for  you  to  say,  after  two  hours'  experience,  what 
you  think  of  the  wit  and  originality  of  Miss 
Vivash  ! " 

The  abrupt  side-wind  takes  Wolfgang  some- 
what aback. 

"  Miss  Yivash  is — a  miracle  of  touching  frank- 
ness." The  master  has  to  consider  within  himself 
for  some  moments  before  pronouncing  the  eulogy. 
"  She  has  passed  through  the  furnace  of  publicity 


BEWARE !  91 

scathless — unworldly  as  she  is  beautiful,  full  of  fine 
exalted  feeling,  full  of  romance,  of  sensibility  !  " 

A  bitter  little  laugh  breaks  from  Jeanne's  lips. 
With  the  story  of  Mr.  Samuel  Chodd,  the  Twick- 
enham dinner,  Lord  Yauxhall — with  Lady  Pame- 
la's budget  of  town  scandal  fresh  in  her  recollec- 
tion, this  old-fashioned  word  "  sensibility,"  as  ap- 
plied to  Miss  Vivash,  is  too  much  for  her.  A 
woman  of  the  world  may  listen  with  philosophic 
composure  to  an  unworthy  rival's  praise  ;  Jeanne 
is  seventeen  !  Indignation,  vanity,  quick  shame, 
quicker  jealousy,  every  honest  emotion  of  her  girl- 
ish heart  may  be  read  by  him  who  runs.  It  takes  a 
good  many  more  than  seventeen  years  to  perfect 
human  beings  in  that  hardest  of  all  hardly  acquired 
virtues — magnanimity. 

"  Until  to-night,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  I  have  given 
you  credit  for  a  good  amount  of  common  sense. 
I  have  thought  you  a  trifle  tyrannical,  perhaps, 
as  to  false  quantities  and  shaky  nominatives,  but 
a  man  of  sound  judgment  on  the  whole.  I  see 
you  as  you  are  "  (successfully  mimicking  the  tone 
of  his  former  strictures  on  herself) — "a man  open 
to  sweet  words,  led  by  the  first  cajoling  voice 
that  flatters,  like  the  rest." 

"Miss  Vivash  is  too  discriminating  to  waste 
sweet  words  on  a  fellow  like  me,"  says  Wolfgang, 
with  a  certain  air  of  constraint  — "  flattering 
enough  that  Miss  Vivash  should  bestow  time  on 
me  at  all,  in  the  absence  of  worthier  associates." 


92  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  In  the  absence,"  says  little  Jeanne,  turning 
her  head  aside,  and  playing  a  grand  imaginary 
fantasia  on  the  window-frame,  "  of — Lord  Yaux- 
hall,  for  instance." 

The  master  watches  her  averted  face — as  much 
of  it  as  can  be  seen  in  profile — narrowly. 

"  What  nonsense  is  this  you  are  talking  ?  "  he 
asks  her,  in  a  tone  of  real  displeasure.  "  Who  has 
been  filling  your  head  with  such  subjects  ?  Lord 
Yauxhall's  is  not  a  name  that  I  choose — you  un- 
derstand me,  Jeanne,  that  I  choose — to  hear  from 
your  lips." 

"  But  Lord  Vauxhall  is  Miss  Yivash's  greatest 
friend,  sir — think  of  that ! — the  friend  of  a  girl 
full  of  fine,  exalted  feeling,  romance,  sensibility  ! 
His  first  wife  managed  to  break  her  heart,  I  am 
told  ;  his  second  one  has  the  ill  luck  to  be  shut 
up  in  an  asylum.  But  his  manners  are  perfect ; 
Lord  Yauxhall  takes  his  hat  off  with  a  better 
grace  than  any  man  in  Europe  ;  and  as  to  his 
Twickenham  dinners — " 

"  Lord  Yauxhall's  domestic  history  !  Lord 
Yauxhall's  Twickenham  dinners ! "  exclaims  Wolf- 
gang hotly.  "  And  pray  what  have  you,  a  simple 
Black  Forest  maiden,  to  do  with  such  things  ?  " 

Little  Jeanne  claps  her  hands  ;  she  dances 
with  wary  speed,  beyond  arm's  reach  of  the 
master. 

"  I  have  been  listening  to  improving  town  talk 
for  a  good  many  hours,  Mr.  Wolfgang.  It  may  be 


BEWARE !  93 

that  I  have  a  better  memory  for  London  scandal 
than  I  have  for  Latin  verbs  and  propositions  in 
Euclid.  Lord  Vauxhall "  (dwelling  with  a  child's 
perverse  pleasure  on  the  forbidden  name)  "  is  not 
unknown  to  you,  it  seems,  by  reputation  ?  Did 
you  ever,  in  the  intervals  of  mathematical  study, 
chance  to  hear  of  Mr.  Samuel  Chodd  ?  Birming- 
ham scissors-people,  you  know,  weak  as  water 
about  lords  and  honorables,  and  '  deliriously  apo- 
plectic ? '  Samuel's  papa  married  the  Lady  Er- 
mengarde  Vauxhall,  and  was  considerate  enough 
to  die  within  a  twelvemonth." 

The  master  remains  silent,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
Jeanne's  clear  and  guileless  face.  "  You  talk  as 
though  I  were  a  dandy  fresh,  like  your  friend  Sir 
Christopher,  from  Piccadilly,"  he  remarks  after  a 
time — "  I,  a  penniless,  itinerant  teacher,  hawking 
such  poor  brains  as  I  possess  about  the  country-side, 
or  settling  myself  for  a  few  months  in  a  neighbor- 
hood, as  the  charcoal-burners  do,  if  I  can  get  a 
little  chance  employment  from  my  betters.  Rich 
scissors-people  —  Lord  Yauxhall  —  Lady  Erm en- 
garde — I  know  just  as  much  of  such  people  as 
you  knew  yesterday,  Fraulein  Jeanne." 

"  Yesterday  is  not  to-day,  Mr.  Wolfgang.  I 
feel  wiser  "  (her  voice  sinking  a  little),  "  ah  !  wiser 
by  twenty  years,  than  I  did  before  our  guests  ar- 
rived." 

"  Too  wise  to  come  out  for  a  last  turn  upon  the 
terrace  with  me  ?  The  forest  is  overshadowed — 


94  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

the  owls  have  left  off  calling  to  each  other.  In 
ten  minutes  more  yonder  black  cloud  will  have 
reached  the  moon.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

"  Yes  "  is  in  Jeanne*s  eyes — on  her  lips  ;  the 
spirit  of  contradiction  is  at  her  heart.  "  Mam- 
selle  Ange  will  want  me  in  the  guest-room,  sir. 
I  have  no  more  time  to  waste.  We  are  to  have 
a  grand  reception  to-night — the  Herr  Pastor  and 
his  wife,  in  addition  to  our  English  visitors — and 
perhaps  the  Frau  Pastor  will  play  us  some  dance- 
music,  as  she  does  at  Christmas.  I  wonder  "  (with 
malicious  show  of  interest)  "if  Sir  Christopher 
Marlowe  is  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  waltz  ?  " 

The  master  moves  aside  without  answering ; 
for  a  minute  or  more  he  watches  the  darkening 
western  terrace — the  terrace  where  five  evenings 
ago  little  Jeanne  told  him  Malva's  history  ;  where 
to-night  he  has  played  audience  to  the  exalted 
feelings,  the  romance,  the  sensibility  of  Miss  Vi- 
vash  !  When  he  looks  around  again  his  pupil 
is  standing  just  within  the  open  door,  ready  for 
flight. 

"  Mr.  Wolfgang  !  " 

"  Jeanne  ! " 

"  You  will  not  take  it  amiss  if  I  relieve  my 
conscience  by  giving  you  a  word  of  warning  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  take  amiss  anything  said  or 
done  by  you  ?  " 

"  Beware  !  beware  !  "  sings  the  girl  with  mock- 
ing emphasis  : 


PAINT,  PATCHES,  AND   POWDER.  95 

w  *  I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see — 

Take  care ! 

She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be — 
Beware ! ' " 

With  a  quick  flank  movement  Wolfgang  makes 
for  the  singer  ;  but,  ere  he  reaches  the  threshold, 
Jeanne  has  fled.  Far  away  along  the  vaulted 
corridor  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  little  elf -like 
figure,  hears  the  ringing  echoes  of  her  voice  : 

"  i  She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair : 
It  is  a  fool's  cap  for  thee  to  wear — 
Beware !  ' " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PAINT,    PATCHES,   AND    POWDER. 

"  I  SCORE  a  royal  marriage,  my  best  Frau  Pas- 
tor, and  make  sure  of  my  game." 

The  guest-room  wears  a  look  of  company  un- 
known in  Schloss  Egmont  since  the  long-buried 
days  when  princes  and  prime  ministers  were  wont 
to  kneel  at  the  Countess  Dolores's  feet.  The  chan- 
deliers blaze  with  wax-lights  ;  the  moth-fretted 
satin  curtains,  the  scantily  gilt  chairs  and  con- 
soles, the  pastel  court  beauties,  are  looking  their 
bravest ;  and,  in  all  the  majesty  of  blue  ribbon 
and  many-colored  flounces,  Mamselle  Ange  con- 
ducts her  reception. 


96  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  Village  pastors  and  their  wives  did  not  get 
beyond  the  servants'  hall,"  Ange  will  tell  you 
confidentially,  "  in  the  time  when  German  society 
was  society.  In  these  revolutionary  days,  what 
with  Berlin  regicides  and  Russian  annihilate,  no 
one  knows  where  to  draw  the  line." 

Besides,  has  not  the  Frau  Pastor  helped  one 
with  the  made  dishes,  and  does  not  all  the  neigh- 
borhood know  that  the  poor  soul  is  respectably 
connected — a  sixteenth,  or  thereabouts,  of  patri- 
cian blood  on  the  maternal  side,  and  related  by 
marriage  to  the  most  noble  Herr  Oberkammer- 
meister  at  the  Residenz  ? 

The  pastor  is  a  large  square  man,  with  large 
square  feet,  incased  in  village-made  shoes,  that  fit 
them — a  pastor  with  dingy  linen,  a  high,  vague 
forehead,  a  rugged  voice,  the  manners  of  a  Di- 
ogenes, and  the  heart  of  a  little  child  !  Like 
many  another  of  his  country's  divines,  Herr  Pas- 
tor Meyer,  during  his  thirty  years  of  rural  minis- 
try, has  struck  up  liaison  after  liaison  with  the 
passing  philosophies  of  the  day.  The  works  of 
men  who  have  for  their  motto,  "  II  f aut  sabrer  la 
theologie,"  lie  openly  on  his  study-table.  His 
sermons  are  filled  by  turns  with  the  rationalistic 
affability  of  Schleiermacher,  and  the  cloudy  mys- 
ticism, leading  nowhere,  of  the  Hegelites.  Such 
of  his  weekly  hours  as  he  can  spare  from  his  pigs 
and  mangel-wurzel,  are  occupied  over  a  ponderous 
book,  still  in  manuscript,  on  the  "  Evolution  of 


PAINT,  PATCHES,  AND   POWDER.  97 

Being  out  of  not  Being,"  or  "  The  Blank  at  the 
Center  of  the  Cosmos."  He  corresponds — 'tis  the 
innocent  glory  of  his  life  to  boast  of  it — with 
Haeckel,  of  Jena,  and,  to  the  scandal  of  Mam- 
selle  Ange,  reads  aloud  the  pamphlets  of  Btichner 
and  Yogt  —  the  popular  "  deifiers  of  matter  "  — 
with  the  same  impartial  gusto  as  he  devours 
schinkenroh,  sauerkraut,  wurst,  and  pfannkuchen 
at  his  own  tea-table. 

The  Frau  Pastor  is  lean  and  wire-drawn  as  a 
metaphysical  abstraction,  the  very  converse  of  her 
spouse.  It  has  been  already  said  that  the  worthy 
pair  visited  Paris  on  their  wedding-tour.  Frau 
Meyer  dresses  still  as  the  Paris  world,  seen  by 
provincial  eyes,  dressed  in  'fifty-five:  hair,  or 
remains  of  hair,  brought  low  upon  the  cheeks, 
voluminous  skirts,  hanging  sleeves,  and  a  crino- 
line. The  good  Frau  Pastor,  whose  age  may  just 
fall  short  of  the  half  century,  wears  also  a  neck- 
lace of  mock  pearls,  a  plume  of  marabout-feathers, 
an  artificial  rose,  spectacles,  and  a  touch  of  rouge  ! 
Yes — on  the  honor  of  a  faithful  historian — spec- 
tacles and  rouge  ! 

Is  not  taste,  as  some  broad  thinkers  aver  of 
conscience,  a  matter  of  latitude  and  longitude  ? 

A  Parisian — her  forty  years  well  struck — gives 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  over  her  dead  youth, 
then  buries  it  decently  in  a  shroud  of  black  lace 
(haunted  by  a  just  perceptible  pathetic  odor  of 
patchouli),  for  evermore.  A  German  breathes 
7 


98  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

roses  round  the  poor  corpse's  head,  strings  beads 
round  its  throat,  bares  its  arms,  smears  a  touch 
of  red  on  its  cheek-bone,  and  parades  it  boldly 
forth,  in  the  glare  of  d#y,  a  distress  to  gods  and 
men. 

Does  the  Teuton  woman  or  the  Frank,  pray, 
exhibit  the  more  genuine  philosophy  ? 

"  Yes,  I  score  a  royal  marriage,"  cries  Mam- 
selle  Ange,  looking  up  from  the  card-table  where 
she  and  the  Frau  Pastor  are  playing  their  accus- 
tomed game  of  six-and-sixty  (the  pastor,  tired 
after  his  day's  plowing,  is  sleeping  the  sleep  of 
the  just  in  an  adjacent  stiff -backed  chair),  "and 
I  lead  the  king  of  trumps,  six-and-sixty.  This 
brings  my  score  down  to  one." 

Sir  Christopher  Marlowe,  who  is  standing  be- 
side the  card-players,  assumes  an  air  of  liveliest 
interest* 

"  The  game  beats  roulette  and  trente-et-qua- 
rante  hollow.  In  the  days  when  I  used  to  addle 
my  head  over  books  of  averages  at  Monaco,  I  saw 
no  excitement  to  come  up  to  it.  Twenty  for  a 
royal  marriage,  eleven  for  an  ace,  six-and-sixty 
counts  one  ;  and  the  longer  you  play  the  lower 
you  score.  —  Some  morning,  when  you  are  at 
leisure,  Miss  Dempster,"  he  turns  appealingly  to 
Jeanne,  "  I  shall  ask  you  to  unriddle  for  me  the 
mysteries  of  six-and-sixty." 

Do  you  know  the  game,  reader  ?  I  speak  from 
knowledge,  solid,  concrete  experience  gained  dur- 


PAINT,  PATCHES,  AND  POWDER.  99 

ing  the  lagging  hours  of  many  a  German  winter, 
when  I  call  it  the  dreariest,  lengthiest,  hardest 
form  of  arithmetic  that  twisted  human  intelli- 
gence ever  gilded  over  with  the  name  of  play. 
You  start  at  a  supposed  score  of  nine  ;  you  clutch 
at  a  visionary  six-and-sixty  which  you  perpetually 
fall  short  of  or  overstep  ;  you  work  back — through 
what  interminable  convolutions  of  kings,  queens, 
and  their  marriages — to  nothing  ;  and,  when  you 
are  nothing,  you  have  won!  Cards,  they  say,  were 
invented  for  the  amusement  of  a  mad  French  king. 
For  the  delectation  of  what  doubly  mad  German 
K5nig  or  Kaiser  could  the  heart  of  man  have  hit 
upon  the  dull,  difficult,  interminable  set  of  com- 
binations styled  six-and-sixty  ? 

Mamselle  Ange  loves  it  with  passion  ;  the  in- 
tricate, backward-moving  score,  the  crooked  twists 
and  turns,  the  airy  inconclusiveness  of  every  detail 
of  the  game,  possessing,  I  doubt  not,  nice  affinities 
with  the  constitution  of  her  own  mind. 

"  Whist  and  chess  are  played  by  rule,"  she 
will  say  disdainfully.  "  They  can  be  learned  like 
a  primer.  At  six-and-sixty  you  never  know  what 
is  coming,  or  where  you  are  ;  and,  as  the  winning- 
point  is  zero,  your  hopes  are  kept  up  to  the  last." 

Often  have  Ange  and  the  Frau  Pastor  been 
known  to  seat  themselves  at  a  card-table  by  two 
o'clock  of  a  December  afternoon,  and  play  at  six- 
and-sixty,  losing  their  temper  and  their  pfennigs, 
alternately,  till  supper-time.  Looking  over  their 


100  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

hands  on  such  occasions,  it  has  sometimes  seemed 
to  Jeanne  that  neither  opponent  was  strictly  cor- 
rect in  her  play.  Extraneous  circumstances,  how- 
ever— the  waning  light,  the  drifting  snow  against 
the  window-frame,  the  howling  of  the  north  wind 
in  the  forests — may  have  been  to  blame.  And  if 
there  had  been  no  little  errors,  where  had  been 
the  disputes — the  human  element,  the  very  salt 
and  savor  of  the  game  ? 

"  Yes,  Jeanne  can  teach  you  the  rudiments,  Sir 
Christopher,  although  she  is  but  a  spiritless  player. 
Jeanne  knows  the  rules  of  six-and-sixty  as  well  as 
I  do.  And  perhaps,"  says  Ange,  "  you  might  in- 
duce Miss  Vivash  to  join  you "  (glancing  across 
at  the  sofa  on  which  Beauty  is  talking,  in  low 
whispers,  with  practiced  slow  smiles,  to  Wolf- 
gang— Lady  Pamela,  in  her  due  position  as  chap- 
eron, at  their  side).  "  By  starting  from  eighteen, 
instead  of  nine,  it  could  be  turned  into  an  exceed- 
ingly pretty  parti  for  three,  though  of  course  the 
counting  would  be  more  complicated." 

"A  game  for  three,"  muses  Sir  Christopher, 
"to  be  played  by  Jeanne  Dempster,  Vivian  Vi- 
vash, and  Kit  Marlowe  !  An  exceedingly  pretty 
parti ;  with  a  complicated  reckoning,  and  Herr 
Wolfgang  left  in  the  cold. — Jeanne,  my  dear  "  (in 
a  tone  of  sudden  mock  alarm),  "we  must  take  care 
of  our  peace  of  mind,  in  earnest.  I  am  not  a  bad- 
looking  fellow  if  the  popular  voice  may  be  be- 
lieved ;  and  you — " 


PAINT,  PATCHES,  AND   POWDER.  101 

Sir  Christopher's  words  sink  into  a  whisper ; 
Jeanne's  telltale  face  blushes  and  dimples ;  and 
Beauty,  who  has  not  ceased  to  watch  them  through 
half -closed  eyelids,  changes  color.  The  defalca- 
tion of  the  least  among  her  slaves,  of  the  coldest 
among  her  discarded  suitors,  causes  this  woman 
pain  more  keen,  it  may  be,  than  the  pangs  of 
worthy  love.  So  nicely  does  Nature  adjust  the 
measure  of  suffering  to  our  individual  tempera- 
ments. 

"  Come  hither,  Jeanne."  "  she  cries,  turning 
away  brusquely  from  Wolfgang. — "  You  too,  Sir 
Christopher.  We  are  holding  a  council  of  war, 
Mr.  Wolfgang  and  I — -discussing  the  possibility 
of  diverting  ourselves,  in  this  benighted  place, 
until  our  host's  arrival.  The  question  is,  What 
shall  our  diversion  be? — Pamela,  my  dear,  sup- 
pose you  wake  up  sufficiently  to  vouchsafe  an 
opinion." 

"  My  opinion  is  in  favor  of  skittles,"  says 
Lady  Pamela,  lazily  unclosing  a  pair  of  sleepy 
eyes.  "  There  is  a  capital  alley  in  the  garden — a 
Kegelbahn,  as  the  classic  vernacular  of  the  coun- 
try has  it." 

"  You  will  never  find  a  better  game  than  six- 
and-sixty,"  cries  Ange,  "and  I  believe,  with  a 
little  calculation,  it  could  easily  be  turned  into  a 
round  game.  We  might  invite  over  the  honor- 
able Frauleins  from  Katzenellenbogen  some  after- 
noon, drink  our  coffee  on  the  terrace,  and — " 


102  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  I  mean  to  get  up  theatricals,"  interrupts 
Vivian,  with  the  rudeness  upon  which  competent 
judges  have  set  the  seal  of  approval.  "  My  darling 
Princess  gave  me  carte  blanche  to  turn  Schloss  Eg- 
mont  inside  out,  from  turret  to  foundation-stone, 
and  I  intend  to  do  so.  '  No  audience,'  do  I  hear 
some  malcontent  remark  ?  We  will  send  invita- 
tions to  every  visitable  person  in  the  duchy  of  Ba- 
den.— There  is  a  cavalry  depot,  you  say,  at  Frei- 
burg, Mr.  Wolfgang  ?  Then  there  are  their  Brum- 
magen  Highnesses  at  the  Residenz."  Ange  glances 
ceilingward,  as  though  to  avert  Heaven's  wrath  at 
the  profanity.  "And  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst "  (drawing  up  her  white  throat),  "  one  might 
order  over  spectators  from  London.  '  First  nights 
we  attend,  but  never  unbend,'  of  course.  Still,  a 
bored  detachment  from  the  Crutch  and  Toothpick 
Brigade  would  be  better  than  nothing.  We  can 
get  our  dresses  from  England  in  three  days,  and 
we  will  fix  the  performance  for  the  evening  of 
Count  von  Egmont's  return." 

Vivian  is  really  animated.  A  flush  suffuses 
the  dead  whiteness  of  her  skin  ;  life  comes  into 
her  pale  eyes.  At  this  moment  you  could  imag- 
ine what  she  would  be — not  in  the  presence  of  the 
one  man  who  loved  her,  unless,  indeed,  that  man's 
hands  were  filled  with  diamonds  —  but  before  a 
crowd  of  worshipers  mobbed  in  the  park  of  a 
Sunday,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes  in  an  exhibition- 
room  beneath  her  own  portrait.  Publicity  of  some 


PAINT,  PATCHES,  AND   POWDER.  103 

kind,  of  any  kind,  is  a  vital  condition  to  her  moral 
ozone,  without  which  she  can  scarcely  draw  breath. 
Even  at  the  project  of  theatricals  in  this  dull  old 
German  house,  before  a  visionary  audience,  the 
soul  in  her — I  cancel  the  expression,  the  leading 
passion  in  her — awakens,  and  with  it  her  beauty. 
She  glances  amicably  at  the  different  faces  round 
the  room — on  Wolfgang  she  looks  as,  surely,  no 
woman  so  courted,  so  handsome,  has  ever  looked 
yet. 

"  A  count  in  the  hand,"  according  to  Lady  Pa- 
mela's dictum,  "  is  worth  a  Chodd  in  the  bush." 

A  poor  professor  in  the  hand,  it  would  seem, 
is  not  too  lowly  for  this  siren's  favors  in  default 
of  worthier  worshipers  —  or  victims,  as  the  case 
may  be. 

"  Private  theatricals  !  Paint,  patches,  and 
powder  !  "  cries  Sir  Christopher,  with  a  groan. 
"Don't  have  *  Delicate  Ground,'  and  don't  have 
4  The  School  for  Scandal,'  Miss  Vivash.  I  have 
played  Charles  Surface  four  times  this  season,  and 
absolutely  refuse  to  drink  bumpers  to  the  peerless 
Maria,  or  bring  my  ancestors  to  the  hammer  any 
more." 

"And  I  refuse  all  old  women's  parts,"  cries 
Lady  Pamela,  waking  up  in  earnest.  "  Yes,  Viv- 
ian, dearest,  I  refuse.  *  I  do  them  so  well  — 
efface  myself  so  admirably — show  such  an  artistic 
spirit,  such  want  of  vanity,  in  making  up  for  the 
character.'  Yes,  I  know — I  hear  your  good-na- 


104  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

tured  compliments  beforehand  ;  but  I  am  modest, 
and  refuse.  I  do  not  intend  to  have  my  head 
turned  anent  my  incomparable  old  women  any 
more." 

"  If  I  am  positively  wanted — behold  me  !  " 
says  Wolfgang.  "  How  could  I  disobey  any  order 
given  by  Miss  Vivash's  lips  ?  But  I  must  be 
looked  upon  strictly  as  a  super  ;  a  *  Walking 
Gentleman,  or  'Enter  servant  with  candles.'  My 
Anglo-Saxon  is  not  of  a  quality  for  airing  in  pub- 
lic. My  _Z?'s  and  P's  " — with  a  cutting  glance  at 
Jeanne — "  are  altogether  inadmissible  for  an  Eng- 
lish hero." 

"  Things  look  deliciously  theatrical  already," 
cries  Vivian,  still  in  high  good  humor.  "  Every 
actor  discontented  with  his  part  even  before  his 
part  is  assigned  to  him.  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe 
will  delight  no  fresh  audiences  with  his  genial 
humor  as  the  prince  of  spendthrifts  ;  Lady  Pamela 
Lawless  refuses  to  hide  her  charms  under  wrinkles 
and  whitewash." 

An  outside  observer  might  cavil  at  this  allu- 
sion to  the  personal  endowments  of  Lady  Pamela, 
than  whom  a  plainer  woman  never  breathed  ;  but, 
as  I  have  already  said,  the  affection  between  the 
two  friends  is  of  material  too  delicate  for  rough- 
and-ready  analysis. 

"  Mr.  Wolfgang  is  afraid  of  his  J5's  and  jP's  ; 
I  myself  am  the  only  well-disposed  member  of 
the  troupe — consequently  the  only  one  whose  de- 


PAINT,  PATCHES,  AND   POWDER.  105 

cisions  shall  be  final !  We  will  act  c  The  Maid  of 
Honor.' " 

Miss  Yivash  leans  back  on  the  sofa,  as  much 
as  is  possible  to  lean  on  any  piece  of  furniture  in 
Schloss  Egmont,  and,  folding  her  finely-cut  arms, 
complacently  begins  to  recite  aloud  : 

" '  Can  he  guess  that  I  love  him,  or  have  I  been 

'  betrayed  ?    I  may  avow  that,  were  I  disposed  to 

bestow  my  hand   on   a  gentleman  of  birth  and 

breeding,  I  should  consult  only  my  own  pleasure 

in  the  act.' " 

"  The  Maid  of  Honor  "  is  a  little  one-act  com- 
edy, in  which,  as  theatre-going  people  know,  Vi- 
vian, during  the  past  season,  has  won  laurels. 
Have  not  royal  hands  thrown  her  bouquets  after 
its  performance  ?  Have  not  newspaper  critics  pro- 
nounced her  to  be  an  amateur  O'Neil,  a  younger 
Dejazet — the  bolder  of  the  prints  going  as  far  as 
to  hint  that  'twere  pity  Miss  Vivash's  histrionic 
genius  should  not,  like  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
outstep  the  limits  of  mere  amateur  fame  ? 

"  And  you,  Miss  Dempster,"  she  goes  on,  turn- 
ing to  Jeanne,  "  would  like  to  take  a  part,  doubt- 
less? Well,  we  will  try  to  find  something  for 
you.  The  character  of  Laura,  alias  Cesario,  with 
the  points  cut  out,  might  be  made  to  suit — might 
it  not,  Pamela  ?  " 

"  I  act  Cesario  myself,  or  I  act  nothing,"  says 
Lady  Pamela.  "  Where  is  the  good  of  possessing 
an  hussar's  dress  if  one  may  not  bring  it  in, 


106  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

spurs,  boots,  and  all  ?  You  take  the  Duchess,  of 
course.  Jeanne  must  be  the  Maid  of  Honor. 
With  her  eyes,  and  her  blushes,  and  her  seven- 
teen years,  Jeanne  will  look  the  ingenue  to  per- 
fection." 

Vivian's  pale  glance  travels  slowly  downward 
from  the  girl's  face  to  her  feet,  then  up  again. 
Jeanne  can  feel  the  coral  beads  scorching  once- 
more  into  her  throat.  Once  more  she  is  conscious 
of  her  over-short  sleeves,  her  over-broad  shoes — 
of  every  inartistic,  provincial  item  in  her  whole 
dress. 

"  Unfortunately,  one  has  one's  ideals  !  Lady 
Blanche  Plantagenet  acted  with  me  last  in  Lady 
Clearwell's  troupe,  at  Brighton,  if  you  remember. 
Alas !  that  was  when  we  first  got  our  name  of 
'  The  Incomparables.'  I  can  not  think  of  *  The 
Maid  of  Honor'  without  thinking  of  dearest 
Blanche  and  her  charming  talent.  No  doubt 
Miss  Dempster  would  be  willing  to  do  her  best, 
and  Evans  could  improvise  some  kind  of  dress 
that  might  pass  as  poudre  for  her  ;  still — " 

"  Blanche  Plantagenet  is  the  ugliest  woman 
in  England,  and  thirty-three,"  remarks  Sir  Chris- 
topher innocently.  "  True  bill,  Miss  Vivash — mat- 
ter of  history.  All  the  Plantagenets  are  as  ugly 
as  sin — no,  as  virtue.  Some  one  help  me  with  a 
metaphor.  And  as  to  her  age,  is  it  not  recorded 
in  the  book  ?  In  the  interest  of  art,  for  our  credit 
among  the  Teutons,  I  hope,  if  this  play  comes  off, 


PAINT,  PATCHES,  AND  POWDER.  107 

Fraulein  Jeanne  will  look  as  much  like  herself, 
and  as  little  like  Lady  Blanche  Plantagenet,  as 
possible." 

"  If  there  is  any  talk  of  theatricals,"  cries  Ange, 
prudently  covering  her  cards  from  her  opponent 
as  she  glances  round  at  the  group  of  young  peo- 
ple— "  Jeanne,  child,  if  Miss  Yivash  decides  upon 
turning  us  out,  from  garret  to  basement,  with 
play-acting,  there  will  be  no  need  to  get  over 
dresses  from  London.  The  Von  Egmonts,  time 
out  of  mind,  have  been  merry-andrews  (I  am 
pleased  to  see  that  my  poor  wit  so  diverts  you, 
Mr.  Wolfgang),  harlequins,  poets,  painters,  play- 
actors !  We  have  tinsel  rubbish  enough  in  the 
Flirstenzimmer  alone  to  supply  half  the  theatres 
in  Germany.  Theatricals  !  "  muses  Ange,  her  face 
growing  overcast.  "  Ay,  we  were  in  the  middle 
of  theatricals  when  Dolores's  death  fell  upon  us. 
Paul  and  Salome  were  in  their  beds — for  children 
were  children  in  those  days — and  their  mother 
had  paint  on  her  cheeks  and  roses  in  her  powdered 
hair,  ready  to  enter  on  the  scene,  when,  in  a  mo- 
ment, as  all  the  doctors  had  foretold,  she  sank 
dead. — Jeanne,  if  Miss  Vivash  and  her  friends  de- 
sire, you  will  show  them  the  masquerading  clothes 
of  Dolores  von  Egmont  just  as  they  lie,  heap  above 
heap,  in  the  Ftirstenzimmer." 

But  Jeanne,  ere  half  the  tale  is  told,  has  made 
her  exit,  stealthily,  from  the  guest-room. 


108  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

A   VILLAGE*  MARCHIONESS. 

A  SUDDEN  revulsion  of  feeling  has  seized  the 
girl ;  an  awakening  of  vanity,  dormant  in  her  sim- 
ple heart  until  to-day  ;  a  burning  desire  to  get  rid 
of  her  beads,  her  shoes,  her  plaits,  and  appear,  at 
all  costs,  as  an  equal,  a  human  creature  of  the 
same  flesh  and  blood  as  Vivian,  in  Wolfgang's 
sight ! 

The  entrance  -  hall,  the  vaulted  corridors  of 
Schloss  Egmont  are  silent,  shadowed.  By  such 
faint  light  as  the  casements,  few  and  far  between, 
admit,  Jeanne  flies  swiftly  up  one  flight  of  stairs, 
down  another,  up  a  third  ;  then  along  a  very 
labyrinth  of  winding  passages  to  the  Ftirstenzim- 
mer — a  lumber-room  now  ;  in  days  of  former  Yon 
Egmont  splendor,  the  state  or  princely  apartment 
of  the  house. 

Legless  chairs  and  tables,  Flemish  tapestries 
amid  whose  fine  fabric  successive  generations  of 
moths  have  ever  run,  the  remains  of  Sevres  and 
Dresden  hopelessly  shattered,  yet  of  quality  so 
rare  'twould  be  a  sin  to  throw  them  away  ;  the 
shell  of  a  hundred-year-old  spinnet ;  some  pa- 
thetically tarnished  toys — all  the  disjecta  membra 
of  the  forsaken,  masterless  house  are  here. 

Groping  along  from   one  dust- covered  land- 


A  VILLAGE   MARCHIONESS.  109 

mark  to  another,  Jeanne  makes  her  way  to  a  bu- 
reau, large  enough  for  a  modern  dressing-room, 
in  which  the  theatrical  properties  of  the  Countess 
Dolores,  dead  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago,  are  stored.  Jeanne  Dempster  knows  these 
properties  by  heart.  Bleeding  nuns,  Spanish  du- 
ennas, French  marquises,  she  can  lay  her  hand, 
unerringly,  upon  the  buskin  or  the  sock,  the  fitting 
garb  for  comedy  or  tragedy,  at  will.  The  adjuncts, 
even  to  the  smallest  detail,  are  not  wanting.  On 
an  upper  shelf  stands  a  mahogany  dressing-case 
massive  as  a  plate-chest,  metal-cornered,  with  the 
initials  of  the  Countess  Dolores  worked  in  silver  on 
the  lid.  In  this  are  ranged  hair-powder,  patches, 
paint ;  scent-bottles  from  which  the  sweetness  has 
not  quite  evaporated  ;  a  needle,  even,  threaded 
with  faded  silk  ;  an  artificial  rose-bud,  to  have 
been  worn,  perchance,  on  that  last  night  when, 
amid  music,  dancing,  masking,  the  final  curtain 
went  down,  with  a  run,  upon  the  Countess  Do- 
lores's life  ! 

Under  common  circumstances  little  Jeanne 
would  have  held  this  dressing-case  sacred.  Scores 
of  times  she  has  looked  over  its  disordered  con- 
tents, but  fearfully,  shrinkingly,  with  the  coward's 
courage,  the  ghostly  creepings  of  the  flesh  which 
children  of  a  certain  temperament  shrink  from, 
yet  court.  Vanity,  however,  like  these  fathers  of 
families,  is  capable  of  all.  Aided  by  the  moon, 
that  just  now  shines  fitfully  through  a  rift  of 


110  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

inky  cloud,  she  selects  a  Louis  Quinze  costume 
that  suits  her  fancy  ;  then,  bearing  the  dressing- 
box  in  her  arms,  dances  away  to  her  own  room, 
lightsome  as  any  little  .moon-sprite  of  the  Wald, 
to  dress.  To  dress  !  April  -  cheeked  reader  of 
seventeen,  looking  forward  to  your  first  break- 
fast, opera,  ball,  your  first  appearance  in  any 
guise  upon  the  platform  of  life's  great  comedy 
— you  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  ! 

And  the  costume  is  rigidly  accurate.  In  these 
days  of  imitation  and  veneer,  we  smack  of  Man- 
chester ever  in  our  travesties  ;  our  velvets  are 
cotton-backed,  our  brocaded  Pompadours  calico. 
Our  forebears  carried  a  kind  of  conscience  into 
their  very  follies,  did  their  pleasures  on  a  solider 
scale  than  we  have  heart  for.  The  uplooped 
tunic  is  of  blue-and-silver  damask,  the  product 
doubtless  of  some  Spanish  loom,  brought  origi- 
nally to  Schloss  Egmont  in  the  young  bride's 
trousseau.  Richest  Valencia  lace  sets  off  the 
throat  and  sleeves.  The  clocked  silk  stockings, 
high-heeled  shoes,  embroidered  Castilian  fan — all 
in  their  way  are  artistic,  all  are  genuine. 

Hastily  lighting  the  candles  on  her  dressing- 
table  (homely  Black  Forest "  dips  "  ;  there  is  not  an 
item  of  needless  extravagance  in  Ange's  house- 
keeping), Jeanne  sets  to  work  on  her  own  trans- 
formation ;  snatching  a  fearful  joy  as  every  mo- 
ment brings  her  nearer  to  possible  rivalry,  divides 
her,  by  a  wider  gulf,  from  the  Jeanne  she  knows. 


A  VILLAGE   MARCHIONESS.  HI 

Hastily  she  piles  up  her  plenteous  locks,  in  a  fash- 
ion learned  from  pastel  court-goddesses,  above  her 
forehead.  She  powders,  she  rouges  ;  puts  on  a 
couple  of  patches  ;  exercises  herself  a  short  space 
over  the  furling  and  unfurling  of  her  fan  before 
the  glass  ;  then,  ere  courage  has  had  time  to  cool, 
runs  down,  with  step  as  hurried  as  the  perilous 
nature  of  her  head-gear  allows,  toward  the  guest- 
room. 

Ruddy-cheeked  Elspeth,  meeting  the  little  fig- 
ure unexpectedly  in  a  half -lit  corridor,  screeches 
aloud,  drops  on  her  knees,  and  signs  herself  with 
the  sign  of  the  cross.  A  peasant,  reared  among 
the  demon-haunted  valleys  of  the  Black  Forest, 
looks  upon  apparitions  as  among  the  common  facts 
of  life.  In  a  house  turned  upside  down  by  Lon- 
don ladies,  their  lovers  and  their  maids,  what  can 
be  simpler  to  Elspeth's  mind  than  that  the  ghost 
of  some  poor  Edelfrau  should  walk  perturbed  ! 
As  Jeanne  catches  a  vision  of  rouged  and  pow- 
dered marchionesses  reflected  in  perspective  from 
the  paneled  steel  mirrors  that  line  the  hall,  her 
own  heart  begins  to  beat  uncomfortably.  When 
she  reaches  the  door  of  the  guest-room  she  stops 
short,  uncertain — yes,  after  her  fingers  touch  the 
lock — whether  to  enter  or  fly.  Elspeth's  emotion 
is  scarcely  a  test  of  the  effect  she  may  produce 
upon  an  educated  audience.  She  may  be  unlike 
Jeanne  Dempster,  yet  neither  beautiful  nor  artis- 
tic. How  if  Vivian,  by  a  glance,  should  cover 


112  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

her  with  ridicule — if  she  should  see  cool  disgust 
on  Wolfgang's  face  ! 

As  Jeanne  hesitates,  Fate,  in  the  person  of  Sir 
Christopher,  cuts  off  the  possibility  of  retreat. 
Sir  Christopher,  suddenly  unclosing  the  door  of 
the  guest-room,  sees,  recognizes  her. 

"  Lady  Teazle  !  "  he  exclaims,  taking  posses- 
sion of  both  the  girl's  little  cold  hands — "  Lady 
Teazle,  by  all  that's  wonderful ! "  Then  leads 
her  straight  under  the  fullest  light  of  the  chan- 
deliers— leads  her,  blushing,  shrinking  (yet  with 
a  child's  arch  vanity  showing  delightfully  through 
her  paint,  through  her  shyness),  into  the  presence 
of  them  all. 

And  the  expression  of  Wolfgang's  face  is  not 
one  of  disgust !  Thus  much  Jeanne  feels  rather 
than  sees,  as  she  stands,  Sir  Christopher  still  doing 
showman,  with  every  eye  fixed  upon  her,  every 
tongue  criticising  her  transformation. 

"  Ausgezeichnete  !  Wunderschone  !  "  exclaim 
the  good  Herr  Pastor  and  his  Frau  in  chorus. 

"  Wunderschone  !  "  repeats  the  master,  in  a 
lower  key. 

"  Wonder  Jane — certainly  !  "  echoes  Sir  Chris- 
topher. "  Janet,  the  wonder  of  the  world.  All 
languages  are  intelligible  when  the  text  of  the 
sermon  is  a  woman's  beauty." 

Beauty !  At  the  word,  Miss  Yivash  rises  to 
her  feet.  Then,  adjusting  her  pince-nez,  that  lawful 
recognized  weapon  of  impertinence,  she  bestows 


A  VILLAGE  MARCHIONESS.  113 

a  stare  of  cold  curiosity  upon  Jeanne  Dempster's 
shrinking  figure. 

"  Quite  too  amusing,  really,  if  one  were  going 
to  get  up  the  sort  of  thing — charades — fairy  stories 
— transformation  of  the  Ugly  Duckling  !  Unfor- 
tunately, my  talents  do  not  lie  in  the  direction  of 
burlesque." 

"  A  delicious  bit  of  porcelain,"  cries  Lady  Pa- 
mela, with  her  off-hand  good  nature. — "  Sir  Chris- 
topher, pray  put  yourself  in  a  fitting  attitude  as 
pendant. 

4  They  are  only  Dresden  China  fair, 
That  little  He  and  She/  " 

Sir  Christopher,  laying  his  hand  upon  his 
heart,  declares  he  has  been  to  fancy  balls,  to  pri- 
vate theatricals,  to  every  folly  of  the  kind  the 
season  has  produced,  ad  nauseam  •  yet,  after  all, 
has  had  to  come  to  the  Black  Forest  to  see  how 
charming  a  really  pretty  girl  can  look,  poudree — 
dashed  if  he  has  not ! 

Miss  Vivash  drops  him  a  stately  courtesy.  If 
a  look  could  kill,  Sir  Christopher's  harmless  span 
of  existence  must,  on  the  instant,  come  to  sudden 
end. 

"We  accept  the  compliment,  literally!  Sir 
Christopher  Marlowe  has  been  this  season  ad 
nauseam  to  fancy  balls,  at  which  ice  have  given 
him  dances  ;  has  acted  this  season  ad  nauseam 
in  private  theatricals  with  us  !  And  now  Sir 


114  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Christopher  Marlowe  has  come  to  the  Black  For- 
est to  see  how  well  a  really  pretty  girl  can  look, 
poudree — dashed  if  she  has  not !  " 

"  Remarks  made  on  the  subject  of  rush-lights 
can  not  include  the  sun,"  says  Sir  Christopher 
with  grave  gallantry.  "  Perfection  has  no  ri- 
vals." 

"  You  have  given  utterance  to  a  very  elegant 
sentiment,  sir,"  cries  Ange,  warming  at  the  mere 
ring  of  a  copy-book  aphorism.  "  When  I  was 
young,  I  always  said  we  commonplace  girls  had 
more  to  dread  from  each  other  than  we  had  from 
the  toasts — they  called  the  beauties  'toasts'  in 
those  days,  Miss  Yivash.  Now,  there  was  a  con- 
nection of  my  own,  quite  a  celebrity,  a  Miss  Carl- 
ton  Jarvis — " 

"  No,  we  are  not  going  to  act  a  burlesque,"  in- 
terrupts Miss  Yivash,  with  her  fine,  native  breed- 
ing. "  So  I  fear  our  village  marchioness  must  be 
pronounced  out  of  court.  If  we  require  Miss  Demp- 
ster's talents  at  the  last,  Evans,  my  maid,  can  run 
her  up  a  suitable  dress  in  a  couple  of  hours." 

She  moves  a  contemptuous  step  or  two  away  ; 
then,  pausing,  glances  back  across  her  shoulder  at 
Wolfgang.  If  you  have  ever  employed  idle  mo- 
ments, reader,  by  gazing  into  the  London  photog- 
raphers' windows,  the  Vivian  glance,  the  Vivian 
shoulder,  must  alike  be  familiar  to  you. 

"You  possess  the  delightful  talent  of  not  sing- 
ing, I  think,  Mr.  Wolfgang  ?  "  (Beauty's  imita- 


A  VILLAGE   MARCHIONESS.  115 

tion  of  the  class  of  Yere  de  Vere  is  one  of  the 
most  diverting  caricatures  extant  to  him  who  has 
a  humorously  disposed  soul.  She  drawls,  droops 
her  eyelids,  raises  her  brows  ;  is  familiar,  chill- 
ing, impertinent  by  turns  ;  and  succeeds — much 
as  Goldsmith's  town  madams  succeeded  when 
they  swam,  sprawled,  languished,  frisked,  in  vain 
rivalry  of  Olivia  Primrose's  natural  grace  and 
high  spirits.)  "  Well,  if  you  do  not  sing,  you  can 
play  a  waltz,  surely,  or  whistle  one.  Of  course 
you  never  heard  Lord  Albert  de  Montmorenci 
whistle  dance-music  ?  How  should  you  ?  Some- 
thing must  positively  be  done  to  hinder  one  from 
falling  asleep." 

"  When  der  young  beebles  might  waltz,  so  play 
I,  ach,  my  Gott,  yes  !  "  cries  good  Frau  Meyer, 
bustling  across  to  the  instrument.  "  Herr  Pro- 
fessor Wolfgang,  I  invite  you,  in  ze  Fraulein's 
name,  for  von  tanz." 

The  Frau  Meyer's  dance-music  dates  from  an 
even  earlier  year  than  her  hair  -  dressing.  She 
thunders  forth  Strauss's  "  First  Set,"  the  "  Origi- 
nal Polka,"  and  the  "  Elfin  Waltzes,"  with  a  will, 
the  Herr  Pastor  performing  an  ad  libitum  drum 
accompaniment  with  his  feet.  Her  time,  how- 
ever, is  good  ;  the  guest-room  floor  is  waxed  and 
polished  to  a  nicety.  Ere  a  couple  of  minutes 
have  sped,  chairs  and  tables  are  pushed  aside,  and 
little  Jeanne,  with  Sir  Christopher's  arm  round 
her  waist,  is  whirling  wildly  through  space. 


116  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Lady  Pamela,  who  seems  accustomed  to  play 
fifth  wheel  in  the  coach,  chats  with  Ange  in  a  cor- 
ner. The  Beauty  and  Herr  Wolfgang  stand  side 
by  side  near  the  piano.  » 

"  I  have  come  to  the  Black  Forest  to  see  a 
really  pretty  girl,  poudr'ee,  and  I  have  come  to  the 
Black  Forest  to  get  a  really  good  waltz."  So  runs 
an  insidious  whisper  of  Kit  Marlowe's  as  he  and 
Jeanne  make  their  first  pause  for  breath.  "  The 
moralists  account  it  among  my  sins  that  I  turn 
life  into  one  long  joke — a  joke,  so  they  say,  with- 
out a  point.  Jeanne  "  (tenderly),  "  I  will  make 
you  a  confession.  I  should  be  quite  content  to 
turn  life  into  one  long  waltz  with  you  for  my 
partner." 

"  Frau  Meyer  for  ever  playing  the  *  Elfin 
Waltzes,'  the  Herr  Pastor  for  ever  beating  time 
with  his  Sunday  shoes.  What  an  earthly  para- 
dise ! " 

"  Our  Beauty,  our  Hyde  Park  goddess,  waltzes 
as  she  does  everything — divinely,"  muses  Sir  Chris- 
topher, giving  a  glance  across  the  room  at  Vivian. 
"  If  ever  you  come  to  London,  little  Jeanne,  if  you 
are  lucky  enough  to  penetrate  to  the  very  heart 
and  bull's-eye  of  fashion,  you  may  witness  a  re- 
fined aristocracy  struggling  together  —  elderly 
earls  treading  on  each  other's  toes,  dowager  duch- 
esses balancing  their  sixteen  stone  on  rickety  ball- 
room chairs — in  vain  efforts  to  behold  Miss  Vivash 
dance.  These  things  are  above  my  head.  As  a 


A  VILLAGE   MARCHIONESS  H7 

plain,  humble-minded  man,  I  feel  that  I  could  in 
the  main  be  content  with  lowlier  excellence.  A 
lily-of-the-valley,  a  violet  by  a  mossy  stone — a 
Black  Forest  brier-rose — " 

They  have  by  this  time  moved  a  few  steps 
nearer  to  the  piano,  and  Jeanne  can  hear  Miss 
Vivash's  voice.  In  her  eagerness  to  catch  Wolf- 
gang's answer  the  girl  forgets  to  listen  to  the 
end  of  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe's  flowery  compli- 
ments. 

"It  is  quite  nonsense  for  you  to  refuse  me  ! 
As  if  a  German  could  be  out  of  practice  in  waltz- 
ing !  Come,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  make  no  more  vain 
excuses.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  going  on  my 
knees,  I  can  tell  you." 

("  On  her  knees  !  "  repeats  Sir  Christopher, 
sotto  voce.  "  No  ;  that  is  a  charge  her  worst 
detractors  would  scarcely  bring  against  our  Beau- 
ty!") 

"  I  give  you  a  last  chance.  Make  up  your 
mind  to  accept  or  refuse  me  before  I  count  five. 
One,  two,  three — " 

And  Wolfgang's  arm  encircles  the  wasp-like 
waist. 

Vivian  pauses  for  a  moment  before  starting  ; 
not  noticing  Jeanne,  not  noticing  an  opposite  mir- 
ror hung  at  such  an  angle  that  the  master  can  see 
therein  the  reflection  of  her  own  face,  she  pauses, 
gives  a  meaning  glance  across  at  Lady  Pamela, 
the  tip  of  her  nose  pointing  heavenward  ;  then 


118  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

with  her  morsel  of  a  lace  handkerchief  dispels 
some  imaginary  dust  from  Wolfgang's  thread- 
bare coat-sleeve  before  resting  her  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

Brief  is  the  contemptuous  action,  quickly  fol- 
lowed by  dulcet  whispers,  by  goddess  smiles.  But 
the  master  has  seen  it  ;  and  Jeanne — ah,  how  the 
child's  heart  throbs,  how  her  blood  boils  at  the 
sight !  Is  Wolfgang  so  much  of  a  philosopher, 
she  asks  herself,  so  infatuated,  so  dead  already  to 
self-respect,  as  to  let  this  insult  to  his  poverty 
pass  by  unnoticed  ? 

Miss  Vivash's  waltzing  is  the  perfection  of 
trained  art.  More  spontaneous  grace,  more  poetry 
of  movement,  you  will  see  exhibited  at  any  village 
festival  among  the  Black  Forest  peasant-maidens. 
But  grace,  poetry,  may  not-  be  the  qualifications 
most  in  vogue  in  London  ball-ooms.  During  a 
pair  of  seasons  Vivian  has  been  forced,  as  fifty 
years  ago  Lord  Byron  worded  it,  to  "  waltz  for  a 
living."  Her  sinuous,  gliding  movements,  her 
pose  of  head  and  shoulders,  are,  I  doubt  not,  in 
accordance  with  modern  aesthetic  taste,  a  simple 
case  of  supply  meeting  demand  :  who  shall  cavil 
at  them  ? 

"  Miss  Yivash  deserves  the  salon  to  herself," 
says  Jeanne,  drawing  back  gravely  from  Sir  Chris- 
topher's side.  "  It  is  well  for  me  to  take  a  lesson, 
well  to  see  how  goddesses — I  mean  how  people 
who  go  to  court-balls — hold  up  their  trains." 


A  VILLAGE  MARCHIONESS.  119 

"  You  have  no  train  to  hold,"  answers  Kit 
Marlowe  ;  "  and,  while  you  live,  you  will  never  be 
a  goddess.  Rein  in  your  ambition,  little  Jeanne," 
he  adds.  "  Goddesses  are  articles  of  luxury — arti- 
cles whose  manufacture  costs  over-dear  in  the 
•  nineteenth  century,  take  my  word  for  it." 

Miss  Yivash  swims  languidly  round  the  room 
twice,  exertion  enough,  doubtless,  with  such  a 
partner,  before  such  spectators  ;  then,  sinking  in 
an  attitude  that  artists  of  a  certain  school  have 
told  her  is  "classic"  on  the  sofa,  she  lifts  her 
eyes,  a  sleepy  fire  in  their  pale  depths,  full  upon 
the  master. 

"  You  have  not  often  in  your  life  danced  a 
waltz  like  that,  Mr.  Wolfgang  ?  " 

The  words  are  nothing.  The  manner  is  that 
of  a  queen  who,  having  bestowed  some  hazard- 
ously great  favor  on  a  subject,  would  fain  recall 
him  by  a  glance,  a  tone,  to  a  sense  of  the  gulf 
that  lies  between  them. 

"  I  have  danced  few  waltzes  of  any  kind,"  an- 
swers Wolfgang,  with  humility,  "  and  such  part- 
ners as  have  taken  pity  on  me  have,  in  general, 
been  Bauer-madchen.  Confess,  Miss  Vivash,  you 
find  my  step  barbarously  German,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Barbarously  German  !  "  repeats  Vivian,  with 
her  little  laugh,  prettily  learned,  coming  from  no 
region  near  the  heart.  "  We  are  accustomed,  at 
court,  I  can  assure  you,  to  partners  of  every  nation 
in  Europe,  to  Germans  most  of  all,  naturally — 


120  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

from  our  family  connections.  Indeed,  among  the 
tip-top  classes  of  society,  nationalities  do  not  exist. 
Everybody  waltzes 'alike." 

As  Vivian  speaks,  .Wolfgang  reviews  her 
charms  impartially  :  the  soulless  brow,  the  pale, 
voluptuous  eyes,  the  studied  abandonment  of 
posture  and  limb.  Then  he  glances  across  the 
room  at  the  Ugly  Duckling,  at  the  transparent, 
primrose  face  of  little  Jeanne.  It  is  in  moments 
seemingly  trivial  as  this  one  that  men's  fates  are 
decided  for  them. 

"  And  you  will  pay  me  no  compliments,  Miss 
Vivash  ?  I  can  not  aspire  to  be  compared  with 
court-partners  of  the  tip-top  classes  of  society, 
but  you  might,  at  least,  raise  my  hopes  by  telling 
me  I  have  not  trodden  on  your  toes  or  torn  your 
gown." 

"  I  invite  you  for  the  first  waltz  on  the  evening 
of  our  theatricals,  Mr.  Wolfgang.  Does  that  give 
you  hope  sufficient  ?  " 

"  Just  sufficient  to  keep  me  alive  in  the  inter- 
val," says  Wolfgang,  with  emphasis. 

And  Vivian  hides  her  face  away  behind  her 
fan.  It  is  the  nearest  approach  ever  made  by  the 
Hyde  Park  goddess  to  blushing. 


HERE,  OR  ELSEWHERE.  121 


CHAPTER  X. 

HEKE,    OR     ELSEWHERE. 

ST.  ULRICH'S  clock  has  struck  twelve  ere  Jeanne 
and  the  housekeeper  start  on  their  nocturnal  mis- 
sion of  seeing  that  "  all  is  safe  "  :  an  empty  form, 
gone  through  by  Ange  at  every  season  of  the  year 
with  stoic,  albeit  fruitless,  punctuality.  They  try 
kitchen-windows,  faithfully  barred  hours  ago  by 
Hans  and  Elspeth  ;  they  shake  casement  windows, 
which  opened  at  their  widest  could  not  admit  a 
child  of  six  ;  they  look  behind  impossible  screens, 
they  set  in  order  wires  that,  in  case  of  burglarious 
attack,  would,  it  is  supposed  by  the  faithful,  com- 
municate with  a  bell  in  Ange's  chamber.  And 
then  they  turn  their  attention  to  the  front  door, 
left  wide  open  at  the  time  of  Wolfgang's  arrival, 
and  through  which  a  dozen  robbers  abreast  might 
at  any  moment  of  the  evening  have  invaded  Schloss 
Egmont,  had  they  listed. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  says  Ange,  giving  abrupt  utter- 
ance to  some  distant  train  of  mental  speculation, 
"  there  is  a  screw  loose  about  that  master  of  yours, 
child.  He  has  not  the  manners  of  his  station,  or 
the  modesty  either — the  modesty,  that  is  to  say, 
that  once  belonged  to  the  lower  classes  ;  and,  if 
this  kind  of  thing  goes  on  much  longer,  I  shall 
think  it  right  .  .  .  Heaven  save  and  protect  us, 
Jeanne — a  man  !  " 


122  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Ange  sinks  shivering  and  panting  against  the 
first  support  that  presents  itself  (Ange,  who  has 
always  declared  herself  to  be,  on  an  emergency, 
worth  a  regiment  of  soldiers,  who  has  a  hundred 
stories  to  tell  of  her  own  presence  of  mind,  her 
own  desperate  valor  at  different  past  crises  of 
life).  That  support  is  Mr.  Wolfgang's  arms. 

"  I  was  just  smoking  my  last  cigar  in  the  dark," 
he  remarks,  quietly  depositing  Ange  and  her  emo- 
tions on  a  bench  that  stands  outside  the  door. — 
"  Have  you  noticed  the  summer  lightnings,  Frau- 
lein  Jeanne  ?  Watch  them  for  a  minute,  here 
with  me.  Even  for  the  Black  Forest  the  effects 
of  sudden  silver  and  purple  are  something  magic." 

During  the  last  couple  of  hours  heaven's  face 
has  grown  overclouded.  It  is  warm  as  noon  ;  in- 
tensely dark,  save  where,  ever  and  anon,  a  fire- 
fly's transitory  metallic  radiance  flashes  through 
the  gloom.  Not  a  vibration  of  sound  is  there  in 
air  or  on  earth.  Not  a  fir-needle  throughout  the 
vast  expanse  of  neighboring  forests  seems  to  stir. 

As  Wolfgang  speaks,  comes  a  sudden  pulsating 
flood  of  white  light,  enabling  him  and  his  com- 
panion to  discern  every  familiar  object  around — 
the  stiff  juniper-hedges  of  the  garden,  the  moat, 
the  bridge,  far  away,  the  granite,  fir-girt  summits 
of  the  Blauen  Mountains — with  dazzling  clearness. 
Then  again  sinks  down  a  darkness  that  can  be  felt, 
the  sickly  ray  from  Ange's  lantern  alone  enabling 
them  to  discern  each  other's  faces ;  and  then,  after 


HERE,  OR  ELSEWHERE.  123 

a  pause,  during  which  neither  master  nor  pupil 
speaks,  comes  another  break  of  light,  longer,  more 
exquisitely  heaven-clear,  than  the  last. 

"  It  is  a  night  when  one  should  be  abroad 
in  the  forest,"  says  Wolfgang,  inhaling  a  mighty 
draught  of  air — cool,  sparkling  air,  freshly  drawn 
from  the  cisterns  of  midnight.  "  Often,  as  a  boy, 
have  I  spent  the  hours  from  midnight  to  sunrise 
watching  such  lightnings  as  these." 

"Here,  in  the  valley  of  the  Hollenthal  ?  " 
Jeanne  asks  him,  startled. 

"  Here — or  elsewhere.  What  matter  longitude 
and  latitude?  Nature  is  the  same,  whether  you 
look  at  her  among  Black  Forest  firs  or  the  olive 
and  ilex  groves  of  the  Alban  Hills." 

"  It  is  a  great  deal  too  late  for  honest  folk  to 
be  out  of  their  beds,"  remarks  Ange,  establishing 
herself  well  within  the  door.  "  You  have  a  long 
walk  still  before  you,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  and,  if  you 
take  my  advice,  will  lose  no  time  in  starting. — 
Jeanne,  my  dear,  come  in.  We  wish  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang, do  we  not,  a  very  good  night  ?  " 

Ange's  figure  is  looking  more  grotesquely  re- 
bellious to  the  laws  of  gravitation  than  usual.  It 
is  said  that  M.  Dore  gets  suggestions  for  outlines 
from  the  shadows  cast  by  morsels  of  crumpled 
paper  on  a  sunlit  floor.  The  profile  of  Ange's 
figure  at  this  moment  might,  assuredly,  hint  forth 
any  number  of  weird  combinations  to  an  imagi- 
native mind.  Her  cap,  her  curls,  have  suffered 


124  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

during  her  quasi-faint ;  the  flounces  of  her  com- 
pany silk  bristle  forth,  fantastically  irregular. 

Little  Jeanne  notes  a  quick  smile  cross  Wolf- 
gang's face. 

"  What !  Do  you  consider  this  a  fitting  hour 
for  me  to  start  across  the  mountains  ?  "  he  begins 
good-humoredly. 

"  I  consider  nothing  at  all  about  fitting  or  not 
fitting,  sir.  The  last  train  passed  St.  Ulrich  at 
eight.  When  you  missed  that  train  you  must 
have  known  your  only  alternative  was  to  walk. 
Jeanne,  come  in." 

The  girl  obeys,  lingeringly.  At  the  same 
moment  Wolfgang  makes  a  strategic  backward 
movement  that  enables  him  to  plant  one  foot 
within  the  threshold  of  Schloss  Egmont. 

"  I  must  throw  myself  on  your  compassion, 
Mamselle  Ange,"  he  remarks  boldly.  "For  to- 
night, such  fraction  of  night  as  remains  between 
this  and  dawn,  I  ask  your  hospitality." 

"  Mr.  Wolfgang — sir  !  the  servants  have  gone 
to  rest — every  habitable  room  in  the  Schloss  is 
full."  A  look  of  absolute  ludicrous  terror  is  on 
Ange's  face,  the  lamp  in  her  hand  trembles.  "  I 
have  been  here  over  thirty  years,"  she  goes  on  in 
a  hollow  voice,  "  and  I  never  was  placed  in  such 
a  false  position  yet.  You  can  walk  down  to  St. 
Ulrich,  surely  ?  Make  your  way  to  the  Bahnhof, 
knock  up  the  station  people — " 

"  And  be  taken  for  an  escaped  socialist,"  inter- 


HERE,  OR  ELSEWHERE.  125 

rupts  the  master,  "  rewarded  with  a  revolver-shot 
for  my  pains.  In  these  days  of  fraternal  equality 
one  does  not  care  to  run  risks  toward  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning." 

Ange's  cheeks  turn  green.  She  is  a  woman 
deeply  read  in  police  history,  and  on  the  instant 
(so  she  afterward  makes  confession)  the  heroes 
of  a  dozen  stories  of  midnight  violence  rise,  red- 
handed,  before  her  vision.  What  does  she  know 
of  this  soi-disant  master,  or  of  his  antecedents  ? 
Who  should  answer  for  his  intentions?  What 
were  the  occupants  of  the  Schloss — a  handful  of 
women,  a  servant-lad,  a  London  dandy  —  if  it 
came  to  a  conflict  with  a  band  of  annihilist  des- 
peradoes, armed  to  the  teeth  ? 

"  My  best  Mamselle  Ange,"  says  Wolfgang,  in 
the  tone  of  easy  command  that,  despite  his  sordid 
surroundings,  so  well  becomes  him,  "  I  respect 
your  scruples.  You  are  the  guardian  of  Schloss 
Egmont,  and  you  shrink,  naturally,  from  afford- 
ing shelter  at  midnight  to  questionable  char- 
acters." 

"  To  questionable  characters  ! "  repeats  Jeanne 
Dempster  indignantly. 

"  But  it  is  possible  for  you  to  perform  an  act 
of  charity  with  circumspection.  Put  me  in  Paul's 
study.  By  locking  a  couple  of  inner  doors  you 
can  shut  me  completely  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
house.  I  shall  depart  through  the  window  by 
daybreak,  and  the  only  thing  I  could  possibly 


126  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

carry  away  with  me  would  be  young  Yon  Eg- 
mont's  portrait." 

Ange  has  no  choice  but  to  consent.  Wolfgang 
assists  in  barring  the  front  door.  As  they  pass 
the  bottom  of  the  staircase  he  holds  out  his  hand 
to  Turk  the  mastiff  (gray  and  toothless  now,  but 
"who  for  more  than  a  dozen  years  has  been  the 
protector  of  Schloss  Egmont).  The  dog  crouches 
and  licks  it. 

"  And  still,  Jeanne,  still,  I  mistrust  the  man," 
says  Ange,  when  a  few  minutes  later  her  lantern 
is  feebly  piercing  the  gloom  of  an  upper  staircase; 
Wolfgang  safely  imprisoned,  according  to  his  own 
suggestion,  in  the  oak  study.  "  Turk's  instinct  ? 
Oh,  half  the  robberies  going  are  brought  about 
through  the  connivance  of  house-dogs.  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang is  not  what  he  seems  !  Even  Frau  Pastor 
Meyer — and  she  has  traveled  about  the  world — I 
won't  talk  of  her  breeding,  but  she  is  a  pious  wo- 
man, versed  in  the  depravity  of  our  fallen  nature 
— even  the  Frau  Pastor  noticed  the  fineness  of  his 
linen.  What  should  a  Latin  master  do  with  cam- 
bric fronts  ?  Why,  his  laundress's  bill  alone  must 
eat  up  half  his  earnings.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
child,  when  Count  Paul  returns,  Mr.  Wolfgang's 
day  will  be  over.  There  will  not  be  room  for 
them  both  under  the  roof  of  Schloss  Egmont." 

At  which  prophecy  Jeanne  Dempster  holds  her 
peace. 


A   HEART.  127 

CHAPTER  XL 

A   HEART. 

"  HEKOES,"  says  the  proverb,  "  are  not  heroes 
to  their  valets."  Goddesses,  if  one  may  generalize 
from  a  solitary  example,  are  in  no  wise  goddesses 
to  their  female  friends. 

In  other  classes,  other  manners.  Had  Vivian 
been  born,  as  Beauties  used  to  be,  in  the  purple  of 
notoriety,  she  might  have  bowed  more  gracefully 
to  her  honors,  have  submitted  with  finer  self-re- 
spect to  her  dethronement.  Beauty,  at  one  time, 
was  a  good  deal  a  matter  of  family  connection. 
There  were  certain  houses  in  which  a  complexion, 
a  throat,  a  line  of  feature,  were  held  to  be  hered- 
itary. The  future  "  toast "  knew  over  what  king- 
dom she  should  hold  sway  before  she  left  the  nur- 
sery ;  was  trained  to  rule,  rather  than  conquer,  in 
the  schoolroom — grew  accustomed  to  bear  a  crown, 
even  before  her  slender  shoulders  were  adequate 
to  the  weight. 

Yivian  is  a  usurper.  Partly  by  accident,  partly 
by  sheer  self-assertion,  not  a  little — so  froward  is 
the  aesthetic  taste  of  over-civilized  man — through 
the  fact  that  she  is  not  beautiful,  has  she  won  her 
perilous  way  to  greatness  whereunto  she  was  not 
born  ;  and  her  success,  of  its  very  nature,  has 
hardened,  vulgarized  her. 


128  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

She  was  elected  a  beauty — ah,  that  bitter  past 
tense  ! — by  so  powerful  a  clique,  had  backers  in 
places  so  high,  that  mothers  the  most  watchful5 
wives  the  most  circumspect,  were  forced  to  in- 
scribe her  on  their  visiting  list.  "  An  outsider,  a 
photograph  celebrity — the  talk  of  the  clubs — the 
Folly  of  the  moment " — these,  and  other  harder 
names,  the  members  of  her  own  sex  who  loved 
her  not  might  bestow  upon  Lord  Yauxhall's  In- 
vention. They  could  not,  dared  not,  while  her 
star  was  still  in  the  ascendant,  exclude  her  from 
their  houses. 

From  their  houses — no.  But  is  there  any  law, 
written  or  unwritten,  forbidding  a  hostess  to  chill 
as  she  courtesies,  to  stab  as  she  smiles  ? 

Patricia  may  be  forced  to  admit  the  Folly  of 
the  moment  to  her  ballroom,  yet  will  make  that 
Folly  feel,  as  only  Patricias  can,  over  what  kind 
of  volcano  her  satin-slippered  plebeian  feet  trip  so 
lightly. 

What  exquisite  slights,  what  finished,  well- 
dred  insults  must  not  poor  Beauty  have  submit- 
ted to  from  women,  even  before  the  slackening 
homage  of  men  warned  her  that  the  hour  of  her 
downfall  drew  near  !  How  bitterly  and  oft  must 
she  have  counted  up  the  gains,  the  losses,  that 
celebrity  had  cost  her  !  What  visions  must  have 
darkened  her  pillow  of  the  future,  hourly  becom- 
ing more  certain,  when  the  fiat  of  humiliation 
should  have  gone  forth,  and  another  Lord  Vaux- 


A   HEART.  129 

hall  have  invented  another  Vivian,  or  another 
batch  of  Vivians — is  not  imitation  the  Nemesis 
of  notoriety  ? — for  the  admiration  of  the  town  ! 

Miss  Vivash's  success,  I  repeat,  of  its  very 
nature,  has  hardened,  vulgarized  her.  It  has  done 
more.  It  has  taken  away  every  wholesome,  sim- 
ple taste  of  life  from  her  feverish  palate.  Lady 
Pamela  Lawless,  butterfly  though  she  be,  has  a 
thousand  ways,  more  or  less  wise,  of  massacring 
time.  Lady  Pamela  is  a  good  walker,  a  not  un- 
intelligent observer  of  men  and  things,  finds  gen- 
uine pleasure  in  every  kind  of  outdoor  sport — even 
in  the  Kegelbahn  !  Lady  Pamela,  ere  f  our-and 
twenty  hours  go  by,  has  settled  down  with  per- 
fect resignation  to  her  fortnight's  dose  of  Schloss 
Egmont — and  the  society  of  Sir  Christopher  Mar- 
lowe. 

To  poor  Beauty  all  is  barren  from  Dan  to 
Beersheba  ;  the  world,  in  very  truth,  a  doll  stuffed 
with  straw,  save  where  the  complexion,  the  slaves, 
the  parasols,  the  bonnets  of  Vivian  Vivash  are  con- 
cerned. 

She  detests  all  that  the  country  yields  with  a 
detestation  worthy  of  Miss  Kilmansegg.  Her 
ankles  are  too  weak  for  these  horrible  hilly  walks 
that  surround  Schloss  Egmont.  The  smell  of  the 
pine-forests  is  like  a  benzone-lamp,  reminds  her  of 
cleaned  gloves,  of  village  tea-parties.  She  is  con- 
vinced the  sun,  should  she  rashly  venture  in  it, 
would  bring  on  an  apoplexy.  During  the  season 
9 


130  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

she  was  strong  enough  to  waltz  for  four  or  five 
hours  every  night  of  her  life  ;  to  pass  her  morn- 
ings on  the  historic  walking  gray,  in  the  Row  ;  to 
spend  her  afternoons  in  shopping*  or  driving,  to 
dine  out  seven  consecutive  days  in  each  week,  and 
generally  attend  all  the  races,  four-in-hand  meet- 
ings, Twickenham  dinners,  and  garden-parties 
going. 

But,  then,  this  was  in  London  ! 

There  is  something  really  pathetic  in  the  per- 
sistency with  which  her  thoughts  center  on  the 
London  she  has  left,  the  London  which,  it  would 
seem,  continues  to  drive,  dine,  dance — to  worship, 
even,  at  the  shrine  of  new  goddesses,  in  her  ab- 
sence ! 

"  The  whole  Beauty  question  wants  ventilat- 
ing," Lady  Pamela  will  tell  her  consolingly.  "  See 
how  much  more  fairly  things  are  managed  on  the 
turf  !  Every  new  Beauty  ought  to  be  heavily 
handicapped  (a  committee  of  dowagers  might  de- 
cide upon  the  penalties  and  allowances),  and  a  first 
favorite,  when  her  day  is  over,  be  provided  for  by 
act  of  Parliament." 

"  A  first  favorite  had  better  be  pensioned  off 
at  the  end  of  one  season."  Thus  Vivian,  with  a 
bitter  laugh.  "Three  months  is  long  enough 
for  such  a  reign.  I  ought  to  have  had  small- 
pox, or  have  died,  or  married,  a  twelvemonth 
ago." 

"  You  would,  in  that  case,  have  possessed  ex- 


A  HEART.  131 

actly  a  twelvemonth's  less  bracelets,  my  dear," 
answers  Lady  Pamela  calmly. 

Bracelets  !  Listening  to  the  two  friends,  as 
they  discuss  this  ever-fresh  theme,  one  would 
think  that  human  life,  with  all  its  complex  mea- 
sure of  joy  and  pain,  could  be  computed  by  jewelry. 

Ovid,  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  his  generation, 
remarks  that  certain  Roman  ladies  had  birthdays 
as  often  as  it  suited  them.  Martial,  in  an  epi- 
gram, reproaches  Silva  with  celebrating  eight  of 
these  festivities  yearly.  A  modern  London  beau- 
ty, in  the  matter  of  presents,  if  in  nothing  else, 
throws  the  ladies  of  old  Rome  into  the  shade. 
Quite  coolly,  Jeanne  and  Mamselle  Ange  listen- 
ing, will  Vivian  talk  of  the  diamond  ring  sent  her 
by  Prince  This,  or  the  pearl  and  ruby  bracelet 
presented  to  her  by  the  Duke  of  That.  Her 
horse,  her  riding-habit,  the  opera-tickets,  the 
yachting  tours  of  Lady  Pamela  and  herself,  have 
been  obtained  free  of  cost.  "  Doubtful,"  so  the 
Beauty  playfully  declares,  "  if  we  have  paid  our 
own  grocers'  bills."  As  for  Mr.  Chodd — his  gifts, 
not  returned,  it  would  seem,  at  the  rupture  of  the 
engagement,  must  have  been  legion.  Trinkets, 
silks,  laces,  all  the  costliest  items  in  Vivian's  pos- 
session are  spoken  of  as  Samuel's  choice,  Samuel's 
fairing,  dear  good  Samuel's  latest  peace-offering, 
u.  s.  w.  If  he  was  thus  amenable  to  reason  as  a 
suitor,  what  might  not  consistently  have  been 
hoped  from  Mr.  Chodd  as  a  husband  ! 


132  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

The  loss  of  her  quondam  lover  occasions  Vivian 
more  fond  regret  than  a  surface  observer  might 
give  her  credit  for.  On  the  third  morning  after 
the  London  visitors'  arrival,  Jeanne,  stopping  be- 
fore the  open  door  of  the  improvised  "  boudoir," 
discovers  poor  Beauty  in  tears  ;  such  innocuous 
tears  as  may  on  occasion  give  safe  relief  to  tem- 
per, yet  not  endanger  one's  eyelashes  or  mar  one's 
complexion.  It  is  an  art,  a  science  in  itself,  this 
knowing  how  and  when  to  weep. 

Everything  in  the  outdoor  world  is  joyous  to- 
day. A  brisk  north  wind,  with  a  refreshing  sense 
of  coming  autumn  in  its  breath,  stirs  among  the 
forests  ;  the  sun  shines  with  godlike  fervor  on 
the  distant  Blauen  tops  ;  he  shines,  with  purple 
sweetness,  in  the  hearts  of  Mamselle  Ange's 
roses.  The  burn  trills  out  a  never-ending  song 
without  words  as  it  runs  onward,  onward,  over 
its  bed  of  moss  and  stone,  toward  the  Rhine. 

But  all  is  tuneless,  sunless,  to  Beauty.  She 
sits  at  her  writing-table — in  a  morning-wrapper 
all  too  ravishing  to  be  described  by  this  homely 
historian — a  jeweled  pen  (whose  gift  ?  Jeanne 
wonders)  between  her  fingers,  a  monogrammed 
sheet  of  note-paper  outspread  before  her.  All  is 
tuneless,  sunless,  to  Miss  Yivash.  The  post  has 
brought  her  the  weekly  socials,  once  the  har- 
bingers, the  bulwarks  of  her  reputation,  and  Viv- 
ian sees  the  world  through  smoke-colored  spec- 
tacles. 


A  HEART.  133 

A  new  Beauty  has  been  invented.  Hence 
these  tears  !  "  Metistophiles,"  "  The  Star  and 
Garter  Gazette,"  and  other  such  chameleon-like 
journals  of  society  sing  paeans  in  the  new  Beau- 
ty's favor.  What  antidote  can  be  offered  by  July 
sunshine,  by  forest,  stream,  or  garden,  to  shaft  so 
poisoned  as  this  ? 

"  It  is  monstrous,  the  work  of  a  cabal,"  Miss 
Vivash  exclaims,  inviting  Jeanne,  by  a  glance,  to 
enter,  and  pushing  aside  her  writing  materials 
with  irritation.  "And  to  think  that  I  should 
have  been  betrayed  by  this  turn-coat,  time-serving 
'  Metistophiles  ! '  "  taking  up  a  paper  from  the 
heap  that  lies  beside  her.  "One,  two,  three — 
yes,  I  have  had  three  copies  sent  me  by  different 
dear,  good-natured  friends,  afraid,  each  of  them, 
lest  the  vile  scandal  should  not  reach  me  fast 
enough.  A  new  Beauty,  indeed !  As  if  Beau- 
ties, like  mushrooms,  could  spring  up  in  a  night !  " 

She  turns  the  pages  impatiently  ;  then,  in  a 
voice  that  quivers  with  genuine  feeling,  begins  to 
read  the  vile  scandal  aloud.  It  is  a  panegyric, 
foreign  to  this  story,  upon  some  freshly  imported 
dark-eyed  American,  "  The  Boston  Rose,"  whose 
charms  and  whose  millinery  have  been  the  delight 
of  Goodwood.  Every  detail  respecting  the  lady's 
dress,  manner,  speech,  and  luncheon  is  given  with 
delightful  outspokenness  ;  indeed,  little  Jeanne, 
in  her  ignorance,  can  scarce  decide  whether  the 
racehorses,  the  jockeys,  the  three-card  men,  or 


134  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

the  reigning  beauties  are  the  most  familiarly  crit- 
icised. The  Rose's  parasol  was  expressly  manu- 
factured for  her  use  in  Lyons — its  device,  knots 
of  her  emblematic  flower,  with  the  initials  B.  R. 
on  a  white  moire  ground.  Her  bouquet  was  pre- 
sented to  her,  with  exquisite  grace,  on  the  course, 
by  Lord  Vauxhall.  No  less  a  person  than  his  Se- 
rene Transparency,  Prince  Ludwig  of  Szczakowa, 
was  plateholder  while  the  Beauty  picked  her 
chicken-bones  and  consumed  her  lobster-salad. 

"  Although  mobbed  at  every  turn,"  concludes 
the  paragraph,  "  the  roughs  crying,  *  That's  her  ! 
that's  her  !  '  royalty  eyeing  her  through  opera- 
glasses,  a  jealous  herd  of  mothers  and  daughters 
criticising  her  every  movement  as  she  walked 
down  the  course  upon  her  husband's  arm,  the 
Boston  Rose  wore  her  honors  with  the  quiet  un- 
consciousness that  already  distinguishes  her.  En- 
thusiastic artists  and  poets  declare  that  such  a 
nose  and  lips  have  never  before  been  seen  out  of 
marble.  In  sober  prose  we  may  state  that  no 
such  living  goddess,  ( ripe  and  real,  worth  all  the 
beauties  of  your  stone  ideal,'  has  graced  Good- 
wood during  the  past  dozen  years,  at  least." 

"  It  is  written  by  their  own  sub-editor,"  cries 
Vivian,  throwing  the  paper  from  her  with  dis- 
gust. "  It  is  the  work  of  Stokes  !  Could  I  mis- 
take his  style  ?  Did  Stokes  not  give  me  scores 
of  such  notices,  did  he  not  give  me  a  leader  every 
second  week,  until  I  refused  to  get  him  an  invi- 


A  HEART.  135 

tation  to  Strawberry  House  ?  *  No  such  goddess 
seen  at  Goodwood  for  a  dozen  years  ! '  And  only 
last  July — twelve  short  months  ago — " 

She  turns  abruptly  to  the  glass  ;  she  analyzes 
the  reflection  it  gives  her  back.  Alas  !  and  at 
this  moment  lines  are  on  her  forehead,  hardness 
is  round  her  lips.  It  takes  no  great  stretch  of 
prophetic  vision  to  predict  what  Vivian  Yivash 
will  be  in  half  another  decade. 

"  I  am  not  growing  old,"  so  she  cries  harshly, 
and  more  as  though  she  apostrophized  Fate  than 
addressed  her  companion.  "  I  have  not  changed 
— 'tis  impossible  I  should  have  changed,  and  me 
not  eight-and-twenty  yet  !  " 

Be  not  over-critical,  reader  !  Can  you  expect 
the  most  beautiful  woman  the  world  has  seen  for 
four  hundred  years  to  be  grammatical  ? 

"  And  this  notice  in  '  The  Star  and  Garter ' !  " 
taking  up  another  paper,  out  of  whose  sheets 
drops  a  lithographed  sketch — a  short-lipped,  high- 
nosed,  drooping-shouldered  gem  of  the  aristoc- 
racy. "  To  think  that  a  miserable  penny-a-liner, 
a  man  whom  we  used  to  have  to  dinner  out  of 
pity,  dares,  because  I  am  alone  and  unprotected, 
to  write  of  me  like  this  ! — 

"  <  The  success  of  our  deposed  queen  was, 
from  first  to  last,  a  success  of  esteem.  Thanks 
to  a  smile,  a  pair  of  shoulders,  a  friendly  artist, 
and  a  momentary  stagnation  in  the  beauty  mart, 
she  awoke  one  morning,  like  Lord  Byron,  to  find 


136  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

herself  famous.  That  the  descent  of  the  stick 
has  been  quick  as  the  uprising  of  the  rocket  can 
surprise  no  one.  The  whilom  divinity  of  our 
smoking-rooms,  the  V.  Y.  of  our  breast-pins  and 
pipe-bowls,  had  not,  in  plain  English,  and  as  the 
intelligent  foreigner  told  us  from  the  first,  a  fea- 
ture in  her  face.' 

"And  I  wish  that  I  were  dead — no,  I  wish 
Lord  Vauxhall  were  dead,  here  at  my  feet  !  "  The 
light  that  lies  in  Beauty's  eyes  is  not  a  pleasant 
one.  "  But  for  him  and  his  Twickenham  dinners 
— dinners  given  to  ladies  of  position  to-day,  to 
Mademoiselle  Sara,  from  the  circus,  to-morrow — 
I  should  not  have  angered  the  one  man  who  loved 
me." 

A  look  of  real  emotion  sweeps  across  Vivian's 
face.  Wound  the  vanity  of  a  woman  of  her  mold, 
and,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  she  will  unaffectedly 
believe  'tis  her  heart  that  suffers. 

"...  I  should  be  rich,  I  should  have  the 
world  on  my  side  still.  During  a  season  and  a 
half,  who  dared  leave  me  out  of  anything?  I 
went  to  all  the  ambassadors'  houses,  I  used  to 
sit  next  the  prime  minister  at  dinner.  If  mem- 
bers of  reigning  families  came  to  London  on  a 
visit,  I  was  asked  to  meet  them.  My  name  ap- 
peared, as  a  matter  of  course,  at  the  concerts  and 
garden  parties — and  when  the  Court  went  in 
mourning  I  wore  black.  If  I  had  married — yes, 
if  I  had  married  even  a  shoddy  Mecasnas  " — let 


A  HEART.  137 

us  not  ask  bow  Beauty  pronounces  the  word  ! — 
"  I  should  be  in  high  places  at  this  moment.  The 
American  creature  is  married.  To  get  on  in  such 
a  horrid,  intriguing  world,  a  poor  helpless  woman 
wants  a  protector.  Thank  Heaven,  Jeanne,"  this 
with  trenchant  bitterness,  "that  you  are  out  of 
reach  of  temptation.  Thank  Heaven,  on  bended 
knee,  for  your  homely  looks.  There  was  a  time," 
moans  Beauty,  "  when  I  thought  I  would  rather 
die  than  be  ugly — yes,  and  I  have  said  so  openly, 
no  matter  what  fine  ladies  with  plain  faces  were 
listening.  I  had  best  change  my  opinions  now. 
To  be  dowdy  and  virtuous,  to  have  this  hideous 
Black  Forest  for  a  background,  to  count  the 
spoons,  to  chronicle  the  small  beer  of  Schloss  Eg- 
mont  will  be  my  fate,  I  doubt  not,  and  I — oh,  I 
shall  have  to  bear  it,  yet  neither  commit  murder 
nor  suicide,  if  I  can  ! " 

And,  motioning  to  Jeanne  to  quit  her,  Miss 
Vivash,  with  a  dreary  yawn,  returns  to  her  letter- 
writing.  Without  betrayal  of  confidence,  may 
we  not  glance  across  her  shoulder  and  read  ? 

"  SCHLOSS  EGMONT  IN  BADEN. 

^MY  VERY  DEAREST  PRINCESS  i  All  that  you 
told  me  of  your  old  home  falls  short  of  the  mark. 
Schloss  Egmont  is  simply  too  charming.  Till  now 
I  never  knew  how  little  I  care  for  the  dingy  parks, 
the  hot  and  glaring  streets  of  London.  The  for- 
ests are  pretty  to  a  degree,  exactly  the  fashionable 


138  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

shade  of  deep  bluish  green  that  is  so  becoming — 
you  must  remember  the  dress  I  wore  at  Lady 
Flora  Walgrave's  breakfast  ?  At  present  I  have 
not  got  beyond  the  dear  romantic  old  garden. 
The  fish-ponds,  and  juniper-hedges,  and  things  do 
make  one  feel  so  d  la  Watteau !  It  seems  a  sin 
to  have  no  aspirant  R.  A.,  brush  in  hand,  to  paint 
one.  Yesterday  I  took  afternoon  tea,  merely 
from  artistic  sentiment,  beside  a  broken  dial  on 
the  western  terrace,  and  consoled  my  solitude  by 
thinking  how  often  you  and  Count  Paul  must 
have  played  there  when  you  were  children.  I 
wore  an  enchanting  tea  gown  of  printed  washing 
silk,  on  a  cream  ground  over  blue,  the  silk  made 
en  sacque,  with  cascade  of  Auvergne  lace,  folds 
of  Indian  muslin  (fitting  the  figure  exquisitely), 
and  a  cap  the  same  shade,  of  Pompadour  satin. 
It  seems  to  me,  though  I  have  only  seen  your 
brother  with  the  eyes  of  the  spirit,  that  I  know 
him  better  than  any  of  the  throng  I  used  to  dance 
and  ride  with  in  London.  How  much  more  really 
flattering  is  his  delicate  homage  than  all  the  noisy 
fulsome  praises  of  the  crowd  ! — But  you  must 
promise  never  to  betray  me — never  to  let  him  sus- 
pect that  I  wrote  thus  !  Alas  !  I  am  too  roman- 
tic, it  is  the  fault  of  my  character.  If  my  heart 
had  been  worldly,  I  should  be  in  a  very  different 
position  at  this  moment,  as  you  know. 

"  Mamselle  Ange,  the  housekeeper,  a  quite  too 
delicious  old  oddity,  received  a  telegram  from 


A  HEART.  139 

Count  Paul  this  morning,  and  we  are  to  expect 
his  coming  next  Saturday.  Lady  Pamela  and 
Sir  Christopher  wish  to  get  up  theatricals  for  the 
evening  of  his  arrival,  and  I  have  been  persuaded 
into  saying  yes.  Had  my  taste  been  consulted, 
I  would  far  sooner  have  met  for  the  first  time  in 
the  delightful  quietness  of  the  country,  the  bud- 
ding woods  around,  the  primroses  blossoming, 
the  song  of  the  nightingale,  or  of  whatever  bird 
it  is  that  sings  at  this  season  of  the  year,  over- 
head !  But  poor  dear  Pamela  is  as  frivolous  as 
ever,  and  Sir  Christopher — 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  conscience,  I  confess,  pricks 
me  sorely  when  I  look  at  Sir  Christopher  Mar- 
lowe, and  think  what  manner  of  man  he  might 
have  become  had  Fate  been  kinder  to  him.  But 
'  'tis  folly  to  remember.'  Sir  Christopher  has  an 
ancient  name,  an  unincumbered  estate,  and  I  am 
a  lowly  born  country  girl,  raised  by  accident  (as 
some  one  says,  'Can  you  help  being  perfectly 
beautiful  any  more  than  being  perfectly  clever, 
or  a  perfect  fool  ?  ')  out  of  the  ranks.  Yes,  dear- 
est Salome,  though  the  great  ones  of  the  earth 
have  taken  me  up,  I  never  forget  my  station,  or 
theirs.  But  I  have  A  Heart  !  Any  woman  who 
marries  without  love,  according  to  my  code,  com- 
mits a  crime.  And  so  Sir  Christopher  knows  that 
I  am  unchangeable,  and  tries  to  pretend,  poor 
thing,  that  he  is  consoled.  Sometimes  the  fear 
haunts  me  that  he  will  turn  desperate — at  a  cer- 


140  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

tain  miserable  time,  don't  you  remember  hearing 
how  wildly  he  played  at  loo  and  baccarat  ? — and 
marry  Lady  Pamela  Lawless.  Heaven  forbid  it ! 
Although  I  can  give  nothing  warmer,  the  poor 
little  fellow  has  all  my  friendship,  and  I  would 
not  see  a  man  I  care  for  marry  a  milliner's  block. 
A  milliner's  block,  too,  without  beauty,  though 
no  one  living  underrates  pink  and  white  charms, 
and  worships  intellect  more  than  me. 

"As  I  have  spoken  of  theatricals,  you  will  ask 
about  our  dramatis  personce.  Oh,  what  a  falling 
off  is  here — and  when  one  remembers  my  success 
with  Lady  Clearwell's  Incomparables,  every  place 
gone  three  weeks  beforehand,  and  stalls  got  for 
the  Portuguese  princes  only  through  the  very 
highest  influence  !  But  I  have  drunk  the  Cup  of 
iSclat  to  the  dregs — my  ambition  now  is  a  fireside, 
domestic  joy,  affection — and  I  rate  such  vanities 
at  their  true  worth.  Ma  tr&s  ch&re,  we  have  got, 
in  addition  to  the  three  chief  actors  that  you 
know,  the  housekeeper's  adopted  daughter,  little 
Jeanne.  The  child  is  plain  to  piquancy  ;  her  lank 
locks,  lean  cheeks,  and  c  intense '  expression  would 
fit  her  for  a  model  in  the  art  school  of  ugliness. 
We  have  also  got — tell  it  not  in  Gath,  whisper 
it  not  in  May  Fair — a  certain  Herr  Wolfgang, 
Jeanne's  arithmetic  master,  to  take  the  part  of 
jeune  premier.  The  poor  man  is  awkward  and 
uncomfortable,  as  might  be  expected  from  a  per- 
son in  his  position  ;  still,  as  he  can  speak  English 


A  HEART.  141 

decently,  one  was  obliged  to  enlist  him  or  give  up 
the  idea  of  theatricals.  You  can  imagine,  with 
what  you  used  to  call  my  patrician  proclivities, 
that  Herr  Wolfgang's  society  must  be  rather  a 
trial  to  me.  However,  I  think  nothing  of  myself. 
All  I  wish  is  to  insure  a  brilliant  home-coming  to 
the  brother  of  my  friend. 

"I  gather  from  Mamselle  Ange's  talk  that 
Count  Paul's  tastes  are  admirably  simple.  In  his 
boyhood  he  met  with  some  romantic  adventure,  it 
seems,  that  for  years  has  made  him  shun  the 
world.  (Like  the  hero  in  that  talented  novel  we 
read  together,  don't  you  remember,  the  free-think- 
ing Life  Guardsman,  with  fifty  thousand  a  year, 
and  blonde  whiskers,  who  took  to  wandering  about 
Europe,  the  curse  of  Cain  on  his  brow,  and  sing- 
ing Anacreontic  songs  in  the  cafes  /)  Oh,  are  not 
these  tastes  mine?  A  country  life,  a  moderate 
fortune,  enough  and  only  enough  of  London  to 
give  zest  to  the  remaining  five  months  of  the  year  ! 
One's  friends  about  one,  a  little  quiet  yachting, 
perhaps,  in  autumn — ah,  dearest  friend,  will  these 
placid  delights  of  existence  ever  be  mine,  or — 

"  I  send  a  thousand  diplomatic  good  wishes  to 
ce  cher  Prince,  and  I  am  my  Salome's  devotedly 
attached — VIVIAN.  " 

"Have  you  heard  of  this  American parvenue, 
whom  the  newspapers  are  absurdly  trying  to  write 
into  celebrity  ?  I  saw  her  at  the  Opera  before  I 


142  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

left  town,  a  little  lean  doll,  with  wide-open,  fool- 
ish eyes,  the  manners  of  a  schoolgirl,  and  a  hus- 
band who,  they  say,  is  a  first-rate  pistol-shot,  and 
will  not  allow  his  wife's  photograph  to  be  sold  in 
the  shops.  My  dear,  she  can  come  to  no  good. 
These  barbarous  marital  virtues  might  do  in  Cali- 
fornia— do  for  one  of  the  heroes  in  Bret  Harte's 
novels.  They  will  never  pave  the  way  to  success 
in  nineteenth-century  London." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

FIRST    REHEARSALS. 

PAUL  VON  EGMONT'S  return  is  fixed  for  Satur- 
day. The  actors  have  five  days  yet  before  them 
for  the  erection  of  their  stage,  for  the  organiza- 
tion of  their  footlights,  for  their  scenery,  proper- 
ties, programmes,  rehearsals,  and  quarrels. 

Quarrels  ?  Who  that  takes  a  part  in  amateur 
theatricals  but  must  echo  the  sentiments  of  quaint 
old  proverb-writer  Le  Clerq  ?  "  J'adore  les  pro- 
verbes."  So  he  makes  one  of  his  own  stage  per- 
sonages declare.  "  C'est  la  plus  belle  invention. 
C'est  la  source  de  mille  tracasseries.  Aussitot 
qu'on  les  introduit  dans  une  maison  on  est  assure 
de  jouir  de  toutes  les  divisions,  de  toutes  les  ziza- 
nies,  les  medisances,  les  calomnies,  qui  regnent  or- 
dinairement  parmi  les  acteurs  de  profession," 


FIRST  REHEARSALS.  143 

"  Unless  the  cast  is  revised,  I  owe  it  to  my  own 
self-respect  to  withdraw  from  the  piece,"  says 
Miss  Yivash,  with  uplifted  profile.  "  My  recol- 
lections of  dearest  Blanche  Plantagenet,  of  Lord 
William  Frederick  de  Yesey — such  high  breed- 
ing, such  talent — " 

"  Unless  I  may  stick  to  Cesario,  I  act  nothing." 
cries  Lady  Pamela,  stoutly  determined.  "  I  have 
ordered  my  Hessians  to  be  sent  over  from  Lon- 
don, and  unless  I  can  bring  them  in,  like  Mr. 
Crummles's  pump,  I  strike." 

"Ladies,"  interposes  Ange,  in  despair,  "re- 
member my  larder !  self-respect,  high  breeding, 
Hessians  !  I  have  ordered  twenty  pair  of  chick- 
ens from  France,  I  have  ordered  pies  from  Stras- 
burg,  and  salmon  from  Geneva.  And  there  is 
thunder  in  the  air  !  " 

"Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  grand  chamberlain," 
chimes  in  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe  tragically — "  a 
grand  chamberlain  in  a  yellow-flowered  waistcoat, 
an  ill-fitting  periwig,  an  ermine-lined  cloak,  and 
knickerbockers  of  the  period.  This  is  my  attire. 
My  histrionic  genius  will  be  displayed  in  mak- 
ing fourteen  profound  salutations,  in  announcing 
everybody  into  everybody  else's  presence,  and  in 
generally  tripping  myself  up  on  my  own  sword, 
from  the  rising  of  the  curtain  until  its  fall.  If  I 
might  exchange — " 

"  No  further  exchanges  are  possible,"  says  Miss 
Vivash  coldly.  "  As  dear  Lady  Pamela  inclines 


144  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

so  strongly  toward  hose  and  doublet,  I  suppose 
she  must  have  her  way.  Such  things  are  matters 
of  taste.  You,  Sir  Christopher,  would  be  too  in- 
congruous as  the  Count  Leoni — " 

"  But  congruous,  exceedingly,  in  the  yellow- 
flowered  waistcoat  and  ill-fitting  periwig  of  the 
Grand  Chamberlain  !  Mein  Herr  "  (and  Sir  Chris- 
topher turns  to  Wolfgang),  "I  wish  you  joy  of 
the  part  assigned  to  you  to  enact.  You  are  to 
make  love,  sir,  in  quick  succession  to  the  Duchess 
of  Carrara  (as  played  by  Miss  Vivash)  and  to  her 
Maid  of  Honor  (as  played  by  Fraulein  Jeanne). 
You  are  to  be  gallant,  jealous,  ferocious,  and  irre- 
proachably matrimonial  in  a  breath.  You  are  also 
to  wear  a  cherry-colored  doublet,  unearthed  from 
the  depths  of  Mamselle  Ange's  lumber-room,  white 
boots,  a  Baden  militiaman's  sword,  a  plume,  and 
tights.  Receive  my  best  wishes." 

The  evening  of  the  first  set  rehearsal  has  ar- 
rived. A  stage,  at  once  cumbrous  and  creaky, 
after  the  manner  of  German  carpenter's  work,  has 
been  put  up  in  the  state  dining-room  ;  foot-lights 
are  burning  and  going  out  at  uncertain  intervals ; 
properties  have  been  hastily  got  together ;  a  scene, 
anachronistic  as  to  date  and  country,  has  been 
brought  down  from  the  Furstenzimmer ;  and  all 
the  members  of  the  corps  are  quarreling  with  true 
theatrical  warmth  and  spirit  over  their  rdles.  The 
master,  who  as  yet  has  not  heard  a  word  of  the 
play,  is  to  be  allowed  to  read  his  part.  Miss  Vi- 


FIRST   REHEARSALS.  145 

vash  undertakes  the  functions  of  stage-manager 
and  prompter.  Ange — sore  perplexed  as  to  the 
likely  effects  of  thunder  on  poultry  and  Strasburg 
pies,  hot,  disheveled  from  superintendence  of  the 
village  carpenters — sits  away  in  the  darkest  cor- 
ner of  the  satte,  doing  audience. 

"  If  you  would  like  to  put  yourself  entirely  in 
my  hands,  Mr.  Wolfgang  ?  "  suggests  the  Beauty 
in  dulcet  tones.  "  I  have  acted  twice  in  this  piece 
with  Lady  Clearwell's  Incomparables,  Lord  Wil- 
liam Frederick  taking  Leoni.  I  know  how  every 
word,  every  look  of  the  impassioned  lover  (poor 
dear  Lord  William  Frederick !)  should  be  ren- 
dered. Will  you  consent  ?  " 

"  Will  you  consent  to  be  troubled  with  such  a 
pupil  ?  "  Wolfgang  answers,  moving  instantly  to 
her  side.  "  I  have  no  dramatic  genius  at  the  best 
of  times.  I  am  not  sure  of  getting  out  a  single  B 
or  P  correctly." 

"Oh,  we  will  make  allowance  for  deficien- 
cies !  "  she  interrupts.  "  Of  course,  in  such  a  posi- 
tion as  yours,  it  is  not  likely  you  should  have  seen 
any  first-class  acting,  but  you  will  be  on  the  scene 
with  me  nearly  all  the  time,  and  with  my  abilities, 
as  Lady  Clearwell  says,  I  can  pull  the  greatest 
stick  in  the  world  through."  Tact,  it  may  be  re- 
marked, is  scarcely  one  of  Vivian  Yivash's  charac- 
teristics. "  Now,  if  every  one  is  ready,  we  may 
as  well  begin. — Sir  Christopher,  you  enter  from  C. 
to  L." 

10 


146  VIVIAN   THE  BEAUTY. 

"  Wondering  which  of  the  seven  cardinal  sins 
I  have  committed,  and  swearing  by  every  hair  in 
my  reverend  beard — Garrick  himself  could  make 
nothing  of  such  a  character,"  breaks  forth  Sir 
Christopher,  with  more  energy  than  it  is  his  cus- 
tom to  show  on  any  subject.  "If  you  are  bent 
on  comedy,  Miss  Yivash,  why  not  choose  some- 
thing all  the  world  knows  ?  There  is  ( She  Stoops 
to  Conquer.'  I  will  undertake  to  give  you  Tony 
Lumpkin,  down  to  the  ground,  and — " 

" '  She  Stoops  to  Conquer '  requires  half  a  doz- 
en set  scenes.  We  have  one — if  you  can  call  it 
one  !  '  She  Stoops  to  Conquer '  requires  sixteen 
performers.  The  Schloss  Egmont  Incapables  (I 
hope  you  admire  the  title  I  have  found  for  our 
company,  Mr.  Wolfgang  ?) — the  Schloss  Egmont 
Incapables  muster  five — if  you  can  call  them  five." 

"  Then  have  a  farce,  something  that  shall  make 
the  gods  laugh,  even  though  they  do  not  know  a 
word  of  English. — « Betsy  Baker,'  or  « Poor  Pilli- 
coddy.'  We  have  about  the  right  number,  it 
seems,  for  '  Poor  Pillicoddy,'  and  I  will  take  Sarah 
Blunt.  There  is  not  a  professional  in  London  can 
act  a  servant-girl  better  than  I,  and  our  friend 
Wolfgang  will  give  us  Pillicoddy  Germanized." 

"  With  the  part  of  Anastasia  Pillicoddy  for  my- 
self. You  are  exceedingly  appreciative,  Sir  Chris- 
topher !  Will  Miss  Dempster's  talents  or  those 
of  Lady  Pamela  be  best  adapted  for  the  colossal 
mariner,  Captain  O'Scuttle  ?  " 


FIRST  REHEARSALS.  147 

"  Can  Captain  O'Scuttle  wear  Hessian  boots  ?  " 
cries  Lady  Pamela.  "  I  am  unburdened  by  false 
pride.  I  will  take  any  character  in  the  English 
drama  which  will  enable  me  to  bring  in  my  boots." 

"  Then  take  the  Grand  Chamberlain,"  says  Sir 
Christopher  promptly.  "  Wear  your  Hessians, 
spurs  and  all,  Lady  Pamela,  and  let  me  be  the  Maid 
of  Honor's  lover. — Miss  Dempster,  you  consent  to 
the  transfer  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  a  vast  deal  simpler  to  give  up 
the  idea  of  acting,"  says  Miss  Vivash,  with  a  move- 
ment of  impatience.  "  Even  in  this  benighted 
country  I  don't  choose  that  people  should  connect 
my  name  with  a  failure." 

"  You  should  have  settled  these  disputes  among 
yourselves,  earlier,"  cries  Ange,  in  a  choked  voice. 
"  Only  this  morning  I  might  have  counter-ordered 
my  supper.  Twenty  pair  of  chickens,  Strasburg 
pies,  salmon — and  thunder  in  the  air  !  " 

"  Suppose  we  go  through  the  rehearsal  first, 
and  discuss  our  demerits  afterward,"  suggests 
Wolfgang,  in  his  tone  of  quiet  mastery — a  tone 
to  which  Vivian  herself  unconsciously  yields. 
"The  Chamberlain,"  consulting  the  book  as  he 
speaks,  "enters  first,  and  to  him  Count  Leoni. 
Some  one  tell  me  the  plot  in  three  words,  that  I 
may  know  what  ground  the  Count  Leoni  stands 
upon." 

"  Plot !  "  repeats  Sir  Christopher,  with  a  groan. 
"  As  if  our  splendid  play  possessed  one  !  I  have 


148  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

read  it  six  times,  I  have  learned  my  part — Lady 
Pamela,  rather,  has  drilled  my  part  into  me — and 
I  know  less  what  the  whole  thing  is  about  than  I 
did  at  starting.  In  the  first  place,  the  Count 
Leoni  is  not  the  Count  Leoni  at  all." 

"  That  is  wrong,"  exclaims  Ange,  glad  of  an 
occasion  to  ventilate  her  temper  at  the  master's 
expense.  "  Give  me  a  man,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  who 
is  what  he  seems.  I  am  no  friend  of  conceal- 
ments and  disguises." 

Under  pretext  of  approaching  a  lamp,  Mr. 
Wolfgang  moves  somewhat  aside.  He  bends  his 
face  down,  as  if  engaged  in  conning  his  part,  and 
replies  not. 

"I  honor  your  sentiments,  Mamselle  Ange," 
remarks  Sir  Christopher.  "  But  I  go  a  great  deal 
further.  I  say,  give  me  the  man  who  does  not 
need  the  same  pair  of  lips  to  refuse  him  twice. 
This  wretched  Count,  who  is  no  count,  gets 
snubbed  by  every  woman  in  the  piece." 

("  The  part  will  suit  me,  after  all,"  says  Wolf- 
gang in  parenthesis,  and  without  looking  round.) 

"Is  rejected  by  the  Duchess,  Miss  Vivash, 
flirted  with,  furiously,  by  the  Maid  of  Honor, 
Fraulein  Jeanne,  and  in  the  end  is  poor  creature 
enough — " 

"The  story  tells  itself,  without  annotation, 
Sir  Christopher,"  cries  Vivian,  her  color  heighten- 
ing.— "  Mr.  Wolfgang,  you  are  this  poor  creature, 
this  Prince  Louis  of  Savoy,  who,  disguised  as  his 


FIRST  REHEARSALS.  149 

own  envoy,  solicits  the  hand  of  the  Duchess 
Olympia.  Let  the  rehearsal  proceed." 

The  rehearsal  proceeds  :  more  smoothly  than 
might  have  been  hoped  for,  after  prelude  so 
stormy.  Whatever  the  worth  of  the  comedy,  as 
art,  it  is  not  ill  suited  to  the  powers  of  the  "  Eg- 
mont  Incapables."  Vivian  has  been  taught  to 
act  by  the  best  professional  instructors  in  London 
— I  should  rather  say,  has  been  taught  to  walk 
"  stagily  "  before  footlights,  to  pose  in  "  stagey  " 
attitudes,  to  talk  in  a  "stagey"  voice;  the  art  of 
acting  is  unteachable.  Lady  Pamela,  as  an  ama- 
teur, is  above  mediocrity.  In  the  character  of  the 
Maid  of  Honor  there  is  ample  scope  for  Jeanne  to 
display  grace,  liveliness,  and  a  certain  sly,  girlish 
malice  that  is  not  without  its  charm. 

At  the  first  telling  scene  in  the  play,  the  inter- 
view between  Olympia's  lover  and  the  mischievous 
Maid  of  Honor,  even  Mamselle  Ange  applauds. 

G-iulia.  Take  my  word  for  it,  the  Prince  of 
Savoy  has  had  a  very  lucky  escape  from  the 
Duchess  of  Carrara. 

Leoni.  You  amaze  me,  madame.  In  what 
way? 

'Cfiulia.  She  is  as  capricious  as  forty  duchesses 
and  five  hundred  maids  of  honor. 

Leoni.  A  very  venial  fault. 

Giulia.  She  is  haughty. 

Leoni.  A  duchess  should  be  so. 

Giulia.  Recklessly  profuse  of  expenditure. 


150  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Leoni.  Her  rank  may  demand  it. 

Giulia.  Of  boundless  extravagance. 

Leoni.  Her  means  may  warrant  it. 

Giulia.  Inordinately  given  to  pleasure. 

Leoni.  The  taste  is  not  uncommon. 

Giulia.  And  to  conclude,  she  loves  some  one 
else. 

Leoni.  Ah,  now  you  have  me  at  fault.  Louis 
of  Savoy  could  accept  no  second  love. 

Wolfgang  pronounces  these  words  with  sig- 
nificance ;  he  looks  hard  across  the  stage  at  Miss 
Yivash. 

Accept  no  second  love  !  A  man  who  should 
win  Beauty's  shipwrecked  heart  must  be  content 
to  take  it  with  unquestioning  faith,  content  to 
take  it  in  such  shattered,  dilapidated  condition  as 
it  came  to  him.  Second,  fifth,  tenth — who  shall 
reckon  the  experiences  that  poor  heart  has  gone 
through  since  the  day  when  Lord  Yauxhall  first 
launched  his  trouvaille,  without  compass,  without 
anchor,  among  the  perilous  shoals  and  quicksands 
of  London  life  ? 

"  Second  love  !  "  exclaims  Lady  Pamela  Law- 
less, with  her  airy  laugh.  "  Vivian,  my  dear, 
fancy  you  or  me  going  back  to  such  preadamite 
matters  as  our  second  loves." 

"  My  first  love  is  the  only  one  to  which  I  have 
been  constant,"  says  Miss  Yivash,  unconsciously 
sincere.  "  By  the  time  I  was  seven  years  old,  I 
knew -my  looking-glass  was  my  best  friend,  and  I 


FIRST  REHEARSALS.  151 

fell  in  love  with  what  I  saw  there.  I  shall  remain 
faithful  to  that  attachment  till  I  die." 

"  Bravissima  !  "  crie's  Sir  Christopher,  applaud- 
ing on  his  finger-tips.  "  If  it  were  not  for  shock- 
ing Mamselle  Ange,  we  would  imagine  ourselves 
to  be  in  the  Palace  of  Truth,  get  up  a  game  of 
6  confessions,'  Miss  Vivash  enacting  the  penitent- 
in-chief.  It  would  be  more  piquant  than  the 
wickedest  play  ever  written  in  any  language." 

The  rehearsal  has  to  be  thrice  repeated.  The 
master  acquits  himself  creditably,  ^'s  and  JP's 
notwithstanding  ;  but  Vivian  is  a  severe  critic, 
and  professes  herself  still  unsatisfied.  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang's points  are  not  those  with  which  Lord  Wil- 
liam Frederick  brought  down  the  plaudits  of  the 
house  at  Brighton.  Mr.  Wolfgang  does  not  show 
tenderness  enough  as  the  lover  of  the  Duchess,  he 
throws  altogether  unnecessary  ardor  into  his  pass- 
ing flirtation  with  the  Maid  of  Honor.  Espe- 
cially does  his  rendering  of  one  little  scene  go 
against  her  critical  judgment.  Looking  after 
Giulia  as  she  quits  the  stage,  Leoni  is  made  to 
exclaim  : 

"  At  last,  then,  I  obtained  what  I  have  sickened 
for  so  long — woman's  love,  without  the  alloy  of 
woman's  vanity  and  self-interest.  I  am  loved  for 
myself,  not  for  my — " 

"Oh  dear,  no,  Mr.  Wolfgang,  this  kind  of 
thing  will  never  do,"  interrupts  Vivian  sharply. 
"  You  misunderstand  the  whole  drift  of  the  sit- 


152  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

nation.  Leoni  is  thinking  of  Olympia,  only  of 
Olympia." 

"But  he  has  that  moment  besought  Giulia, 
passionately,  to  marry  him,"  suggests  the  mas- 
ter. 

"In  a  fit  of  mistaken  jealousy,  not  caring 
whether  the  girl  answers  yes  or  no.  His  manner 
to  her  must  be  supremely  indifferent — Lord  Wil- 
liam Frederick  acted  it  so  deliciously  that  dearest 
Blanche  Plant agenet  was  just  the  least  bit  in  the 
world  piqued — his  eyes  must  follow  her  coldly  as 
she  leaves  the  scene." 

"  Ach,  soh  !  That  will  want  study  indeed.— 
Little  Jeanne,"  says  Wolfgang  kindly,  and  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  to  his  pupil,  "  come  hither. 
This  ( looking  cold '  is  a  part  that  will,  indeed, 
need  practice." 

For  a  moment  there  is  dead  silence.  Wolf- 
gang's expression  of  face,  the  familiar  "  little 
Jeanne,"  the  change  from  the  half-deferential, 
half -bantering  manner  in  which  he  has  been  re- 
ceiving Vivian's  instructions,  take  every  one  pres- 
ent aback. 

Vivian  herself  is  the  first  to  speak. 

"  If  an  amateur  performance  is  to  have  a  chance 
of  success,  there  should  be,  not  half  a  dozen,  but 
half  a  hundred  rehearsals.  Every  point,  as  Lady 
Clearwell  says,  ought  to  be  labored  at,  stippled 
up  like  a  miniature.  '  The  Maid  of  Honor '  may 
not  be  brilliantly  witty  !  " 


THE  REHEARSALS.  153 

"  Brilliantly  witty  ! "  echoes  Sir  Christopher, 
with  gloomy  emphasis. 

"  But  I  have  never  known  it  fail  of  success 
when  I  have  taken  the  part  of  Olympia."  A 
master  memory  used  to  keep  score  of  the  number 
of  times  the  heroine  fainted  throughout  a  fashion- 
able novel.  Could  any  mind  reckon  up  the  "  I's  " 
that  occur  during  one  half -hour  of  Vivian  Vivash's 
conversation?  "All  I  ask  is — that  I  should  be 
decently  supported.  I  must  coach  you  all,  sepa- 
rately and  individually,  in  your  parts.  Now,  if 
Mr.  Wolfgang  " — she  gives  a  side-glance,  then 
looks  down — "  if  Mr.  Wolfgang  could  run  over  to 
Schloss  Egmont  for  an  hour  or  so  every  forenoon, 
not  exactly  for  general  rehearsal,  but  just  to  pol- 
ish up  the  scenes  of  love  and  jealousy,  in  which 
Leoni  and  the  Duchess  appear  alone  ?  " 

What  answer  but  one  can  Wolfgang,  a  man  in 
nowise  lifted  to  heroic  heights  above  vanity,  re- 
turn to  such  an  appeal  ?  He  will  run  over  to 
Schloss  Egmont  to-morrow,  will  hold  himself  in 
readiness  at  all  hours  of  the  day  between  this  and 
Saturday,  if  such  be  Miss  Vivash's  commands. 

"And  your  pupils  in  Freiburg,"  cries  Ange, 
looking  up  with  a  queer  expression  from  her  cor- 
ner— "those  excellent,  studious  lads  you  have  so 
often  told  us  about,  to  whom  work  means  work, 
and  Euclid,  Euclid  ?  What  is  to  become  of  the 
pupils'  mathematics  while  the  master  is  junketing 
and  play-acting  about  the  country  ?  " 


154  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  The  pupils  need  rest,"  says  Wolfgang  grave- 
ly. "Overwork  is  sapping  their  intellectual 
strength.  I  shall  give  my  excellent,  studious  lads 
a  holiday  until  the  morrow  of  Paul  von  Egmont's 
return." 

"The  studious  lads,  and  their  mathematics, 
too,  seem  to  be  of  an  elastic  nature,"  retorts  Ange 
dryly. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LORD  VAUXHALL'S  INVENTION. 

WOLFGANG  keeps  his  word.  The  scenes  of 
love  and  jealousy  are  as  conscientiously  labored 
at  as  though  the  great  Lady  Clearwell  were  stage 
manageress,  and  everything  augurs  well  for  Viv- 
ian's approaching  triumph. 

Laces,  satins,  paste  brilliants,  Hessian  boots, 
are  on  their,  road  from  London ;  pink  satin  play- 
bills, with  Vivian  Vivash's  name  preeminent  in 
big  capitals,  are  ordered  from  Baden  ;  notes  of 
acceptance,  yes,  even  from  their  Serene  Trans- 
parencies at  the  Residenz,  pour  hourly  in.  Mam- 
selle  Ange,  over  head  and  ears  in  the  preparation 
of  calves'-feet  jelly,  English  plum-cakes,  and  Ger- 
man zuckerbackerei — Mamselle  Ange,  more  con- 
fused of  thought,  more  uncertain  of  temper  than 
usual,  declares  that  a  new  reign  of  folly  and  ruin 
is  being  inaugurated  at  Schloss  Egmont.  From 


LORD  VAUXHALL'S  INVENTION.  155 

father  to  son,  the  Von  Egmonts  have  ruined  them- 
selves after  one  fashion.  It  will  be  the  same 
story  now  :  the  only  difference  that,  with  fast 
London  notions,  with  a  set  of  fast  London  prodi- 
gals to  assist  him,  Paul's  ruin  is  likely  to  come 
about  at  a  somewhat  quicker  pace  than  that  of 
his  ancestors. 

Everything  augurs  well  for  Vivian's  approach- 
ing triumph  ;  but  Vivian  herself  is  bored  well- 
nigh  to  extinction  !  When  the  English  post  is 
in,  when  the  late  breakfast  is  dawdled  through, 
when  Wolfgang  has  received  his  daily  dose  of 
poison  from  the  flattering,  cold  eyes  of  his  pre- 
ceptress, how,  in  very  truth,  should  poor  Beauty 
occupy  herself?  After  Paul  von  Egmont's  re- 
turn, things  may  be  better.  Von  Egmont,  so 
she  will  say  pleasantly  to  Jeanne  and  Mamselle 
Ange,  between  her  yawns,  will,  at  least,  be  hu- 
man. He  will  have  subjects  of  conversation  (by 
"  conversation "  Vivian  means  the  gossip  of  the 
clubs,  the  last  scandal  of  the  turf,  or  of  the  law- 
courts),  and  he  will  have  taste — to  appreciate 
Miss  Vivian  Vivash's  charms  ! 

Meanwhile  there  are  endless  hours  still  to  be 
slaughtered  before  his  arrival — in  this  July  prime, 
this  perfect  weather ;  no  fleck  of  cloud,  from 
dawn  to  even,  on  heaven's  blue  face  ;  every  black 
aisle  of  the  forest  warm  with  piny  fragrance  ;  the 
distant  mountains  steeped,  from  pinnacle  to  base, 
in  sunshine  ! — endless  hours  of  the  too  transient 


156  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Schwarzwald  summer  to  be  slaughtered,  not  de- 
lighted in.  Are  there  no  Big  Houses  in  the 
neighborhood,  no  resident  families,  no  mortal 
means  that  shall  rescue  one  from  Schloss  Eg- 
mont  and  from  the  vacuum  of  one's  own  thoughts  ? 
Is  there  nothing  profitabler  to  listen  to  than  the 
soughing  of  the  fir-boughs,  the  fall  of  the  wood- 
cutter's axe,  the  cadence  of  the  little  burn  as  it 
runs  on  for  ever  through  the  drowsy,  carnation- 
scented  Schloss  gardens  to  the  Rhine  ? 

Providentially,  at  a  late  hour  on  Wednesday, 
a  passing  chance  of  self-escape  presents  itself. 
Mamselle  Ange's  errand-maiden,  toughest,  most 
weather-beaten  of  Ariels,  the  carrier,  news-bear- 
er, huckster,  and  general  diplomatist  and  emis- 
sary of  the  district,  brings  word  that  an  afternoon 
fdte,  with  concert  and  dancing,  is  to  take  place  at 
Badenweiler  to-morrow,  Thursday.  A  special 
train  will  leave  St.  Ulrich  at  four,  returning  be- 
fore midnight ;  carriages  will  be  in  waiting  to 
convey  the  sommer  frisehlers  from  Mtilheim  sta- 
tion to  Badenweiler  ;  and  five  marks  a  head,  so 
cheap  is  pleasure  in  the  Fatherland,  will  cover 
the  expenses,  entrance-tickets  included,  of  the 
day. 

"Let  us  have  our  five  marks'  worth,  by  all 
means,"  says  Vivian,  coming  languidly  to  life  at 
even  this  mildest  prospect  of  dissipation.  "I 
will  enlighten  the  savage  mind  by  wearing  my 
Derby  white,  and  the  parasol.  A  pity  the  only 


LORD  VAUXHALL'S  INVENTION.  157 

hearts  to  break  will  be  those  of  a  few  provincial 
Fraus  and  Frauleins." 

It  is  characteristic  of  Miss  Yivash  that,  in 
reckoning  up  the  probable  number  of  her  slain, 
she  ever  gives  precedence  to  the  women  who  shall 
die  for  envy  over  the  men  who  shall  die  for  love. 

"  And  I,"  cries  Lady  Pamela,  "  will  wear  my 
pocket-handkerchiefs. — Oh,  you  may  open  those 
eyes  of  yours,  little  Jeanne  ! — I  have  a  dress  of 
spotted  blue  handkerchiefs  sewed  together,  and 
look  charming  in  it.  I  wore  my  handkerchiefs  at 
Ascot,  and  was  called  by  my  enemies  a  symphony 
in  spots,  an  d  by  my  friends  the  ugliest  woman  in 
the  ugliest  dress  on  the  course.  You  will  see  if  I 
do  not  make  the  Badenweiler  notabilities  wake 
up  a  little." 

"If  we  could  only  organize  a  party,"  sighs 
Vivian,  looking  hard  at  her  own  fair,  discon- 
tented face  in  the  glass.  .Schloss  Egmont  is  rath- 
er worse  off  than  most  German  country-houses 
for  mirrors,  yet  it  would  seem  that  the  Beauty 
never  sits,  stands,  or  leans,  save  at  some  angle 
from  which  she  can  contemplate  the  reflection 
of  her  own  charms.  "Sir  Christopher,  I  sup- 
pose, toujours  Sir  Christopher,  and  the  inevitable 
Wolfgang  must  be  the  limit  of  our  ambition.  If 
we  could  only  run  across  some  chance  man  of 
one's  own  set,  some  civilized  being,  at  least,  to 
tell  the  people  who  one  is  !  " 

"  Why  not  advertise  ? "   suggests   Lady   Pa- 


158  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

mela.  "Mamselle  Ange  assures  me  that  every- 
thing— from  barrels  of  herrings  and  betrothals  up 
to  challenges  and  Beethoven  concerts — is  adver- 
tised in  the  St.  Ulrich  newspaper.  It  would  be 
a  cheap  short-cut  to  celebrity.  '  A  noted  London 
Beauty,  attended  by  foil  and  friends,  is  positively 
engaged  to  appear  at  the  Baden weilerf&es.  The 
Beauty  will  wear  the  genuine  dress  and  parasol, 
a  little  the  worse  for  wear,  that  obtained  so  start- 
ling a  success  at  the  last  Derby.  Foil  in  pocket- 
handkerchiefs.  Show-hours  from  four  till  eleven. 
OBSEKVE  !  No  extra  charge  made  on  admission- 
tickets.'  " 

"  Wonld  it  not  be  excellent  ? "  cries  Vivian, 
unsuspicious  of  irony.  "  Would  it  not  wring  the 
provincial  female  breast  with  envy?"  Lacking 
all  natural  sense  of  humor,  poor  Beauty  is  self- 
absorbed  (even  when  the  sacred  theme  of  her 
own  charms  is  touched  upon)  to  a  degree  that 
curiously  deadens  her  perception  of  ridicule. — 
"  Jeanne,  my  dear,"  turning  with  her  accustomed 
frank  contempt  to  the  Ugly  Duckling,  "  how  do 
you  propose  to  array  yourself  ?  In  white  muslin 
— oh,  quite  impossible.  I  am  not  afraid  of  rival- 
ry," with  her  thin,  cold  laugh,  "but  I  can  not 
allow  two  shades  of  white  in  the  same  group.— 
Lady  Pamela,  advise  Miss  Dempster  what  toilet 
will  best  suit  her  complexion,  and  at  the  same 
time  throw  up  my  dress,  and  yours." 

To  bid  little  Jeanne  relinquish  white  muslin  is 


LORD   VAUXHALL'S   INVENTION.  159 

to  bid  her  relinquish  her  confirmation  frock,  the 
one  fresh  dress  her  modestly  stocked  wardrobe 
can  furnish  forth.  "  Decide  for  me  as  you  like, 
Miss  Vivash  ;  I  am  quite  familiar  with  the  part 
of  Cinderella,"  she  exclaims  ruefully.  "  My  only 
other  clean  frock  is  a  pink  print,  washed  out  until 
there  is  not  a  trace  of  pattern  left,  and  so  much  " 
(measuring  off  a  goodly  distance  on  her  arm) 
"  too  short  in  the  skirt." 

"  Delightful !  The  pink  will  be  exactly  the 
thing,"  cries  Vivian.  "Cinderella  married  a 
prince  in  the  end.  Who  shall  say  what  may  be 
in  store  for  you  ?  Wear  the  washed-out  print,  my 
dear,  and  the  coral  beads  as  well.  Pink  and 
scarlet,  for  some  complexions,  go  together  charm- 
ingly." 

Jeanne's  pillow,  ere  she  sleeps  at  night,  is  wet 
with  saltest  tears  !  When  next  day  comes,  how- 
ever, when  she  stands  beside  the  Derby  white 
and  the  symphony  in  spots  on  the  St.  Ulrich  rail- 
way-platform, she  feels  that  there  may  be  worse 
parts  to  play  than  that  of  Cinderella — more  con- 
spicuous evils  in  the  world  than  a  washed-out 
print  without  a  trace  of  pattern  left,  and  a  string 
of  coral  beads  ! 

Lady  Pamela's  appearance  is,  of  course,  frank- 
ly grotesque.  You  look  at  her  with  a  sigh  of  pity 
for  the  generation  in  which  such  things  are  pos- 
sible. Still,  the  spotted  blue  handkerchiefs  are 
clean.  Her  attire  may  be  the  result  of  caprice, 


160  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

fashion,  a  wager,  madness.  Want  of  beauty  may 
have  impelled  her,  in  default  of  legitimate  admira- 
tion, to  challenge  men's  notice  by  a  freak.  Still 
she  is  clean.  But  her  companion  .... 

No  doubt  when  that  training  Indian  silk  first 
started  for  the  Derby  it  was  fresh  as  the  delicate 
cream-and-rose  bloom  of  its  wearer's  complexion. 
Through  what  hard  professional  wear  and  tear, 
what  theatre-going,  what  champagne  suppers  it 
has  since  passed,  who  shall  say  ?  It  is  fashioned 
with  the  long  cuirass  bodice  Miss  Yivash  ordi- 
narily affects.  The  sleeves  are  slashed  with  gold  ; 
the  skirts  are  so  narrow  that  one  calculates,  with 
painful  uncertainty,  as  to  Beauty's  chance  of  sur- 
mounting the  two-foot-high  step  of  a  German 
railway-carriage.  She  wears  an  unlooped  Rem- 
brandt hat  over  one  ear,  ruffles  of  lace  (so  yellow 
they  might  have  belonged  to  Queen  Elizabeth 
herself)  around  her  throat  and  wrists,  and  the 
parasol,  a  gorgeous,  half-Japanese  construction, 
with  the  monogram  V.  Y.  embroidered  in  gold 
and  silver — now,  alas  !  tarnished  —  on  a  white 
ground.  What  idle  apprentice  but  took  note  of 
that  parasol  at  the  World's  Fair ;  what  idle  ap- 
prentice but  listened  dutifully  to  the  legend  which 
gave  that  parasol  interest  ? 

The  station-master  and  porters  stare  in  official 
silence.  The  assembled  crowd  of  pleasure-seek- 
ing St.  Ulrichers  stare  also  ;  not  in  silence.  With 
fine,  trenchant  impartiality  they  criticise  the 


LORD   VAUXHALL'S  INVENTION.  161 

Beauty's  narrow,  trailing  skirts  ;  Lady  Pamela's 
spotted  pocket-handkerchiefs  ;  the  tall  hat,  close- 
cropped  hair,  square  elbows,  crutch,  and  bracelet 
of  Sir  Christopher.  Relying  on  the  strangers' 
ignorance  of  German,  they  hazard  plainest  prac- 
tical guesses  as  to  the  social  status,  age,  wealth, 
occupation,  and  morals  of  each  member  of  the 
group. 

Hot  with  shame,  Jeanne  Dempster  shrinks 
away  from  her  party ;  she  essays  to  hide  herself 
among  the  crowd.  If  this  be  the  effect  produced 
by  Hyde  Park  divinities  in  St.  Ulrich,  what  sen- 
sation shall  they  not  cause  upon  a  larger  scene, 
before  a  larger  audience,  at  Baden  weiler? 

"  Tell  me  what  the  popular  mind  thinks  of 
us,"  says  Vivian,  the  moment  they  find  them- 
selves within  friendly  shelter  of  the  railway-car- 
riage. "Be  amusing  with  all  your  might,  little 
Jeanne,  and  be  candid.  Translate,  in  detail,  every 
compliment  you  have  heard." 

"  The  popular  mind  does  not  think  much  of 
us,"  answers  Jeanne  sententiously.  "The  popu- 
lar mind  is  uncertain  whether  we  belong  to  a 
millinery  establishment,  a  minor  theatre,  or  a 
traveling  circus  from  Leipsic  Fair." 

"  Thank  Heaven  the  good  souls  think  nothing 
worse  !  "  cries  Lady  Pamela.  "  The  ferocious  way 
in  which  one  old  lady  eyed  our  charms  made  me 
really  believe  she  was  going  to  cry  ( Police  ! ' : 

"  They  are  a  set  of  utter  barbarians,  of  igno- 
11 


162  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

rant,  uncultivated  boorg,"  remarks  Miss  Vivash. 
"  There  is  not  a  shopboy  in  London  but  knows 
who  one  is — yes,  and  what  sort  of  deference  is 
due,  too,  to  people  of  position." 

And,  leaning  back  in  her  place,  Vivian  folds 
her  statuesque  arms,  and  bestows  looks  of  thun- 
der on  the  smiling  landscape — every  league  a  new 
picture  of  sun-tinted  beauty — through  which  they 
travel.  Vistas  of  primeval  forest ;  villages  where 
the  stork  builds  in  the  quaint  wood-spires  ;  the 
alder-fringed  river  ;  the  poplar  avenues,  stretch- 
ing away  toward  purple  Alsace — what  does  Vivian 
care  for  such  sights  as  these  ! — Vivian,  to  whom 
our  whole  fair  planet's  crust  is  but  a  kind  of  fili- 
gree-work for  the  setting  of  dresses,  bonnets,  para- 
sols, and  whose  higher  ideas  of  landscape  are  com- 
prised by  Kensington  Gardens  when  the  band  is 
playing,  or  the  drive  to  Twickenham  ! 

The  pleasure-seekers  leave  their  train  at  Mill, 
heim.  From  thence  a  rickety,  open  shandry-dan, 
dignified,  like  everything  which  goes  on  four 
wheels  throughout  Germany,  by  the  name  of 
droschka,  conveys  them,  through  a  succession  of 
old-world  hamlets,  past  rushing  streams  and  busy 
saw-mills,  to  Badenweiler.  Everywhere  is  the 
same  sensation  caused  by  London  art-dress,  by 
London  beauty.  Housewives  rush  forth,  bare- 
armed,  from  kneading-pan  or  washing-tub,  saw- 
yers suspend  their  sawing,  children  their  play  ; 
all  stare  with  startled  bovine  wonder  (like  Eng- 


LORD   VAUXHALL'S  INVENTION.  163 

lish  rustics  before  a  hurdy-gurdy  and  white  mice) 
at  the  strangers  as  they  pass. 

"  We  should  have  done  better  to  advertise  and 
placard,"  says  Lady  Pamela,  when  they  find  them- 
selves, by  this  time  with  an  attendant  crowd,  in 
the  straggling  mountain-lane  that  leads  up  from 
Badenweiler  proper  to  the  Kursaal.  "  The  mass- 
es must  be  educated  before  they  can  appreciate  the 
^Esthetic. — Janet,  child,  I  don't  know,  all  things 
considered,  that  I  would  mind  changing  dresses 
with  you  for  the  remainder  of  the  day." 

Sir  Christopher  looks,  gravely  admiring,  at 
Jeanne's  plain  cotton  frock,  at  her  broad-brimmed 
peasant's  hat. 

"  Miss  Dempster's  dress  is  idyllic,"  he  remarks, 
with  his  little  air  of  dilettante  conviction.  "  Gains- 
borough would  have  been  glad  of  her,  just  as  she 
stands,  as  a  model." 

"  Washed-out  prints,  cobbler-made  shoes,  coral 
necklace,  and  all,"  interrupts  Jeanne,  quickly  fear- 
ful of  ridicule.  "  I  wonder,  in  Mr.  Gainsborough's 
absence,  how  many  conquests  my  idyllic  appear- 
ance will  make  at  Badenweiler  ?  " 

"Herr  Wolfgang  is  to  be  there,"  observes 
Vivian  laconically.  "  He  asked  leave  to  meet  us 
with  such  pretty  humility  that  I  had  not  the  heart 
to  say  nay.  Of  one  conquest  Jeanne  is  certain." 

"  Yes,  of  one  conquest  Fraulein  Jeanne  is  cer- 
tain," repeats  Sir  Christopher,  in  a  tone  that  brings 
the  color  to  the  girl's  cheeks. 


164  VIVIAN   THE  BEAUTY. 

Kit  Marlowe  is  free  to  pay  idle  compliments, 
an  he  lists.  There  his  liberty  ends.  The  precise 
length  of  tether  that  shall  be  accorded  to  him  for 
the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  is  speedily  mea- 
sured out  by  Miss  Yivash. 

"  Gainsborough  may  have  had  his  own  crotch- 
ety ideas,"  so  she  remarks,  as  they  enter  the  wick- 
et-gate of  the  Kurgarten.  "  I  have  mine  ;  and  I 
say  that  the  coloring  of  our  group  does  not  har- 
monize. Our  group,  as  a  natural  consequence, 
must  divide — do  not  all  the  painters  declare  that, 
if  I  am  not  artistic,  I  am  nothing  ?  Who  comes 
with  me?  Will  you,  Sir  Christopher?"  (This 
in  a  sweet  little  tone  of  coaxing  entreaty.  She  is 
not  generally  sweet  to  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe.) 
"Bygones  shall,  for  once,  be  bygones,  and  we 
will  try,  really  and  honestly,  if  we  can  not  remain 
half  an  hour  in  each  other's  society  without  quar- 
reling." 

Sir  Christopher's  afternoon,  I  repeat,  is  laid  out 
for  him  :  pleasantly,  surely.  What  better  fate 
could  a  man  desire,  under  summer  sunshine,  with 
music  playing  and  soft  winds  blowing,  than  to 
be  Beauty's  escort  ? — what  better  fate — unless  it 
chance  that  he  and  Beauty  have  gone  through  the 
like  kind  of  paradisiacal  experiences  already  and 
grown  sick  of  them  ! 

As  the  two  move  slowly  away  down  the  cen- 
tral alley  of  the  garden — every  head  turning  to 
gaze  after  the  trailing  Indian  silk,  the  marvelous 


LORD  VAUXHALL'S  INVENTION.  165 

parasol,  the  fair  "  unconscious  "  face  of  Vivian — 
a  new  possibility  flashes  across  Jeanne's  mind. 
MissVivash  is  ambitious,  disappointed,  has  newly 
lost  a  wealthy  lover — conditions,  surely,  under 
which  a  heart  like  hers  might  easily  be  caught  in 
the  rebound.  Why  weave  romances  about  Ger- 
man counts  or  German  professors  when  the  solid 
English  acres,  the  position,  the  title  of  Sir  Chris- 
topher Marlowe  may  lie  at  Beauty's  very  door  ? 

Lady  Pamela  seems  to  guess  her  thoughts. 

"  A  stranger  might  wonder,  might  he  not,  at 
the  position  in  which  our  friends,  yonder,  stand 
toward  each  other  ?  I  wonder  at  it  myself,  some- 
times. But  you  must  know,  my  dear,  we  are  peo- 
ple with  a  past — Kit  Marlowe,  Vivian,  and  I.  At 
your  age,  naturally,  all  verbs  are  conjugated  in 
the  present  tense, '  J'aime,  tu  aimes,  il  aime.'  We 
have  reached  the  passe  indefini — you  see  I  have 
not  quite  forgotten  my  French  grammar — we  have 
got  to  'nous  avons  aime.'" 

"  Who  is  '  we '  ?  "  asks  Jeanne  with  interest. 
"  Not — Lady  Pamela  Lawless  and  Sir  Christopher 
Marlowe?" 

"We  show  so  many  lingering  symptoms  of 
sentiment,  do  we  not?"  replies  Lady  Pamela — 
Jeanne  thinks  with  a  somewhat  heightened  color. 
"  Everything  about  us  so  clearly  denotes  a  pair  of 
antiquated  turtle-doves  ?  No,  child,  no  ! 

"'Jel'aime. 

"'Tul'adores. 


166  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"'II  1'epouse.' 

"If  Kit  Marlowe  and  I  were  to  conjugate  the 
verb  'aimer,'  we  should  do  so,  depend  upon  it, 
according  to  the  most  advanced  spirit  of  an  en- 
lightened age." 

As  Lady  Pamela  speaks,  they  turn  into  one  of 
the  narrow  paths  that  lead  up  through  coolest  em- 
erald shade  from  the  main  avenue  of  the  gardens. 
Five  or  six  minutes'  brisk  ascent  brings  them  to 
the  summit  of  the  hill — the  steepest,  surely,  of 
any  Kurgarten  in  Germany — among  the  ruins  of 
the  Schloss.  Immediately  below  is  a  sheer  decliv- 
ity, clothed  in  every  varied  green  of  juniper, 
beech,  and  mountain-ash.  Behind  and  to  the  left 
are  the  Black  Forest  highlands  ;  crest  after  crest 
succeeding  each  other  in  long,  soft  stretches  of 
wavy  outline  ;  a  very  sea  of  hill,  blue,  undulating, 
as  old  Ocean  himself.  To  the  west  is  open  plain, 
here  purple,  here  golden,  as  the  clouds  slowly  suc- 
ceed each  other  athwart  the  sinking  sun.  The 
chimneys  and  roofs  of  Miihlhausen  glisten,  like 
points  of  fire,  in  the  middle  distance.  In  the  fore- 
ground are  a  coffee-table,  three  or  four  painted 
chairs,  and  one  of  those  gigantic  revolving  spy- 
glasses, with  varicolored  compartments,  through 
which  the  German  holiday-maker  loves,  in  the  in- 
terval between  Wagner's  music  of  the  future  and 
the  present  consumption  of  cakes  and  coffee,  to 
gaze  on  nature. 

"  Awfully  jolly    machine  ! "   exclaims    Lady 


LORD   VAUXHALL'S  INVENTION.  167 

Pamela,  turning  the  wheel  briskly.  Would  the 
Pyramids,  St.  Peter's,  the  Yenus  of  Milo,  elicit 
any  higher  form  of  approval  from  her  lips  ?  "  Life 
seen  under  difficulties  of  every  shade  and  com- 
plexion. Rose-color  !  Ah,  I  knew  the  meaning 
of  rose-color,  myself,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  and 
with  Uncle  Paget's  stud  still  to  the  fore.  Green  ! 
Yes,  and  I  have  lived  for  two  long  years  in  that 
atmosphere,  grass-green  as  the  monster  jealousy 
could  make  it.  Yellow !  Artificial  sunshine, 
champagne,  gaslight ;  pleasures  high-rouged  and 
spicily  flavored  ;  life  as  it  is  now — as  it  has  been, 
rather,  any  time  during  the  past  six  seasons. 
And  next,  smoke-color !  Rheumatism,  district- 
visiting,  the  odd  trick,  a  father  confessor — the 
future. — Be  thankful,  little  Jeanne,  that  you  are 
only  seventeen,  farther  off  by  a  dozen  years  than 
I  from  the  smoke-colored  department ;  the  mixed 
process  of  satiety  and  regret  that  men  term  (  so- 
bering down.' " 

She  puts  her  hand  under  Jeanne's  arm,  and 
they  continue  their  walk ;  emerging  ere  long  upon 
the  Friihlingsblume  Plateau,  a  terrace  immedi- 
ately above  the  Kursaal,  thronged  at  this  sunset 
hour  with  loungers,  and  where  the  symphony  in 
spots  attracts  nearly  as  much  attention  as  Beetho- 
ven's Symphony  in  B  flat  (an  epitome,  say  the 
Germans,  of  every  phase  of  happy  love  !),  which 
the  band,  at  the  present  moment,  plays  deliciously. 

But  Lady   Pamela's   thoughts   and  converse 


168  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

still  are  grave.  "  Yes,"  she  goes  on,  leading  her 
companion  apart  from  the  crowd,  "  we  have  got, 
all  three  of  us,  Herr  Wolfgang  will  soon  make  an 
indifferent  fourth,  to  the  passe  indefini.  Nous 
avons  aime  poor  little  Kit  Marlowe,  I  will  say, 
to  his  credit,  very  honestly.  You  think  it  strange, 
do  you  not,  that  we  should  all  be  as  good  com- 
rades as  we  are,  and  nothing  more  ?  Janet,  I  will 
whisper  you  a  secret  that  is  the  secret  of  half 
London  as  well.  In  days  gone  by,  exactly  a 
twelvemonth  ago  next  November,  Sir  Christo- 
pher Marlowe  was  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  Miss  Yivash  (or  with  the  reputation  of  her 
Beauty — I  have  never  been  quite  sure  which), 
and  she  laughed  at  him." 

There  is  no  mistake  about  it  this  time.  The 
color  does  deepen  on  Lady  Pamela's  cheek;  her 
lip  trembles. 

"Laughed  at  him,  relented,  accepted  an  en- 
gagement-ring— we  have  it  still,  among  our  mu- 
seum of  trophies — and  threw  him  over;  all  within 
the  space  of  six  short  November  days.  Ah  ! 
those  miserable  days — I  never  thought  a  man 
could  be  so  hard  hit — just  at  the  beginning  of 
the  hunting  season,  too,  when  you  would  say  the 
human  heart  could  brood  over  nothing  long — 
save  a  black  frost !  I  have  told  you,  have  I  not, 
how  Vivian  and  I  first  became  allied  ?  Grand- 
papa Yauxhall  had  disinterred  her  during  his 
autumn's  yachting,  in  some  little  village,  west- 


LORD   VAUXHALL'S   INVENTION.  169 

ward  ho  !  He  announced  his  discovery,  as  an 
astronomer  might  announce  the  finding  of  a  new 
planet,  in  the  clubs,  engaged  a  painter  and  a  poet 
to  give  his  trouvaille  the  hall-mark  of  fashion, 
and  brought  her  and  her  mamma  to  stay  with 
the  Ladies  Vauxhall  in  London.  Mamma,  as  a 
first  condition  of  success,  we  had  to  dismiss.  It 
seems  undutif ul,  you  think,  Jeanne  ;  but  what 
should  a  Beauty  Regnant  do  with  a  dowdy  little 
Devonshire  parsoness  dogging  her  steps  ?  Mam- 
ma, her  honest  head  turned  by  her  daughter's 
budding  greatness,  we  had  to  pack  up  and  send 
home,  and  Vivian  and  I,  under  grandpapa's  au- 
spices, set  up  our  joint  establishment. 

"  That  establishment  was  of  a  most  delusive 
and  transitory  nature,"  muses  Lady  Pamela 
mournfully.  "  A  nutshell  of  a  house,  abutting  on 
the  Park,  certainly,  but  so  small,  cruel  tongues 
averred,  that  our  maids  had  to  lodge  under  the 
kitchen  table  and  our  page  in  the  coal-scuttle. 
A  nutshell  of  a  house,  a  miniature  brougham,  a 
family  coachman  (from  the  livery  stables),  and  a 
couple  of  riding-horses,  all  paid  for — perhaps  I 
ought  to  say  all  not  paid  for — by  the  month. 
For  the  yachting  and  hunting  seasons  we  trusted 
to  the  hospitality  of  our  friends,  and  our  childlike 
faith  was  rewarded — I  don't  say  without  occa- 
sional rebuffs  ;  but  these  we  were  large-souled 
enough  to  overlook.  Aspirant  Beauties  must 
have  no  flesh  and  blood  about  them,  as  the  man 


170  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

who  was  pilloried  said  of  tradesmen  ;  no  passions, 
no  resentments  !  August  saw  us  on  board  the 
easiest-laced,  most  convivial  yacht  in  Cowes.  In 
September  we  were  on  the  moors.  Winter  found 
us  at  Leamington.  At  Leamington  poor  little 
Kit  Marlowe  came  to  grief." 

Lady  Pamela  stops  short,  a  flush  on  her  cheek, 
a  light  unwonted  in  her  eyes.  All  the  plainness 
of  her  face  seems  at  this  moment  to  be  swept 
away,  as  if  by  magic. 

"Beauty,  Jeanne,"  she  resumes,  presently, 
"has  its  peculiar  temptations  (I  wonder  how  of- 
ten I  have  heard  that  phrase  ?),  with  which  no 
ugly  women  can  really  sympathize.  Beauty  may 
lure  on  an  honest  man  to  the  utmost,  refuse,  ac- 
cept, refuse  him,  all  in  half  a  week,  and  then 
make  a  jest  of  him  among  his  friends  afterward. 
The  world  will  shrug  its  shoulders  over  his  fate. 
Heartless  !  My  dear  fellow,  who  would  credit  a 
professional  Beauty  with  a  heart  ?  Coquetry, 
vanity,  greed — qualities  which  in  other  women 
may  be  vices — are  her  virtues.  Kit  Marlowe 
jilted?  Kit  Marlowe  must  accustom  himself  to 
his  position,  as  his  betters,  not  a  few,  have  done 
before  him. 

"  The  old  Duke  of  Beaujolais,  I  should  tell 
you,  was  in  Leamington  just  then  ;  padded,  de- 
crepit, one  foot  in  a  slipper,  the  other  in  the 
grave,  needing  a  couple  of  servants  to  support 
him  to  his  wheel-chair,  or  lift  him  from  his  car- 


LORD   VAUXHALL'S   INVENTION.  171 

riage.  And  a  horrid  whisper  ran  through  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Leamington  society  that 
his  Grace  might  remarry.  'Twas  a  whisper  only  ; 
but  it  decided  Kit  Marlowe's  fate.  What  chance 
for  a  poor  little  country-gentleman  with  his  three 
or  four  thousand  a  year,  against  the  bewildering, 
pulse-stirring  possibility  of  winning  the  Duke  of 
Beaujolais's  heart  ?  " 

"  Sir  Christopher  took  his  punishment  stoutly," 
Lady  Pamela  finishes.  "  He  did  more.  He  con- 
tinued, as  not  one  man  out  of  fifty  would  have 
done,  a  friend  of  the  woman  who  had  jilted  him. 
Half  a  dozen  times  since,  when  events  have  been 
taking  a  threatening  enough  turn  for  us,  Sir  Chris- 
topher has  worked  them  straight  again,  and  not 
in  the  Yauxhall  fashion.  From  first  to  last,  Lord 
Vauxhall's  patronage  of  Vivian  was — an  adver- 
tisement of  Lord  Vauxhall's  vanity.  '  The  town 
wanted  a  new  beauty,'  grandpapa  used  to  say, 
with  his  big  laugh,  '  and  I  invented  one.  I  hope 
I  am  not  to  be  made  sponsor  for  all  my  Inven- 
tion's future  career.'  And  the  words  had  a  sneer 
in  them.  Sir  Christopher  has  been  loyal  as  a 
brother  through  good  report  and  through  evil — 
through  evil,  especially." 

"And  is  brotherly  loyalty  a  state  of  feeling 
sure  to  last  ?  "  asks  little  Jeanne. 

"  It  will  last  in  this  case,  child.  Sir  Christo- 
pher is  not  made  of  such  poor  stuff  as  to  pin  his 
heart  upon  his  sleeve  a  second  time.  No  ;  Kit 


172  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Marlowe  will  remain  a  bachelor,  and  I — well,  there 
is  some  kind  of  cousinship  between  us  to  start 
with,  and  I  already  am  '  nine-and-twenty,  and 
used  up.'  It  will  not  take  many  more  years  be- 
fore I  shall  be  old  and  staid  enough  to  keep  house 
for  him  with  propriety.  Did  any  civilized  peo- 
ple ever  stare  like  these  ?  " 

Four  white -capped  Freiburg  students  have 
stretched  themselves  across  the  path,  and  gravely, 
as  though  they  were  conducting  some  scientific 
research,  are  examining  the  symphony  in  spots 
through  four  pairs  of  spectacles. 

"  One  would  think  they  had  never  seen  an  ugly 
woman  queerly  dressed  in  their  lives  before,"  says 
Lady  Pamela  calmly.  "  Let  us  hope  that  the  na- 
tive mind  will  recover  its  equilibrium  before  the 
ball  begins.  I  mean  to  dance  every  dance  through- 
out the  programme,  if  the  Teuton  will  only  collect 
his  scattered  wits  sufficiently  to  invite  me." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

N      SILK      ATTIRE. 


"<LA  philosophic  a  deux,'  "  remarks  Kit  Mar- 
lowe, a  couple  of  hours  later  on.  "  Let  us  thank 
the  gods,  whatever  gods  there  be,  that  one  is  ver- 
dant enough  still  to  prefer  a  hop  to  philosophy." 

The  ball-room   windows   stand   open   to   the 


IN   SILK  ATTIRE.  173 

night ;  soft  and  low  the  Bohemian  band  strikes 
up  the  prelusory  bars  of  the  Tannhauser  waltzes  ; 
Jeanne  and  Sir  Christopher  are  partners.  Blonde 
frauleins  with  garlands  in  their  hair,  with  pearls 
around  their  throats,  with  floating  knots  of  rib- 
bon, with  superabundant  adornment  of  all  kinds, 
are  being  led  forth,  by  slim- waist ed,  yellow  mus- 
tached  warriors,  from  the  side  of  stalwart  mam- 
mas. Lady  Pamela,  falling  at  once  into  the  easy 
etiquette  of  Kursaal  ballrooms,  has  accorded  her 
hand  to  an  unknown  cavalier — an  Austrian,  over- 
redolent  of  Government  cigars,  of  inexpensive 
macassar ;  and  alas !  with  cuffs  and  collar  too 
palpably  of  paper,  but  fair  and  poetic-looking  as 
any  stage  Faust.  Miss  Yivash  lingers  still,  "  phi- 
losophizing" with  Wolfgang,  who  smokes  his 
cigar  in  the  darkness  of  the  gardens.  The  mas- 
ter, detained  by  his  conveniently  elastic  pupils, 
has  only  arrived  by  the  latest  train  from  Frei- 
burg, and  Miss  Vivash  unselfishly  foregoes  the 
certain  successes  of  the  ballroom  to  be  his  com- 
panion. 

Somewhat  farther,  perhaps,  than  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang suspects,  may  the  smoking  of  this  cigar, 
the  pursuit  of  this  philosophic  a  deux,  land  him. 

"  I  believe  you  are  a  philosopher  without  know- 
ing it,  Sir  Christopher,"  says  little  Jeanne  gayly. 
The  girl's  heart  is  ice-cold  ;  her  cheeks  are  on  fire. 
She  has  determined,  with  all  the  will  that  is  in 
her,  to  show  indifference  to  Wolfgang  and  his 


174  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

actions  ;  and,  like  most  unpractical  actors,  runs  a 
risk  of  overdoing  her  part.  "  With  a  room  full 
of  ribbons  and  tulles  and  laces,  a  man  must  be  a 
philosopher,  indeed,  who  should  choose  a  Cinde- 
rella like  me  for  his  partner." 

Sir  Christopher  gazes  at  the  washed-out  print 
with  an  air  of  lachrymose  gallantry  that,  whether 
she  be  heart-broken  or  no,  brings  a  smile,  per- 
force, to  Jeanne's  lips. 

"  A  Watteau,  a  wood-nymph,  a  poem,"  he  re- 
marks sentimentally.  "When  you  are  my  age, 
have  seen  as  much  of  the  pomps  and  vanities  of 
ribbons  and  laces  as  I  have,  my  dear  child,  you 
will  value  them  accordingly." 

"  Your  age  !  I  should  hope  some  one  will  have 
taken  pity  on  me  before  then,"  cries  Jeanne. 
"Deserving  poverty  may  be  interesting  enough 
in  its  teens.  What  would  you  say  to  a  Watteau, 
a  wood-nymph,  a  poem,  in  limp  linen  at  eight-and- 
twenty  ?  " 

Sir  Christopher  Marlowe  sighs.  "  I  should  in- 
ordinately like  to  know,  in  detail,  what  you  mean 
by  '  some  one  taking  pity  on  you,3  Miss  Demp- 
ster?" 

"Would  you?  Oh,  my  ambition  is  modest, 
very  !  I  could  content  myself  on  an  allowance 
of  five  hundred  pounds  a  year  pin-money."  Ange 
and  Jeanne,  between  them,  may  annually  spend 
on  their  clothes  five  hundred  marks — not  a  pfen- 
nig more.  "  Five  hundred  pounds  a  year  pin- 


IN  SILK  ATTIRE.  175 

money,  with  unlimited  opportunities  for  running 
into  debt,  and  an  occasional  bonus  in  the  shape  of 
jewelry.  I  am  likely  to  come  across  that  kind  of 
*  some  one '  in  the  Black  Forest,  am  I  not  ?  " 

"Not  only  likely,  but  certain,  if  you  would  let 
'  some  one '  take  you  at  your  word.  In  the  mean 
time,"  whispers  Sir  Christopher  tenderly,  "  shall  we 
begin  our  waltz,  do  you  think  ?  I  am  quite  con- 
tented either  way,  but  shall  we  make  a  start — or 
not?" 

The  suggestion  reminds  Jeanne  Dempster  that 
during  the  past  two  minutes  she  and  her  partner 
have  been  standing  in  an  attitude  of  preparation, 
her  hand  on  Kit  Marlowe's  shoulder,  his  arm 
around  her  waist — reminds,  but  disconcerts  her 
not.  This  is  Jeanne's  first  introduction  to  the 
world,  the  first  ballroom  in  which  she  has  stood,  a 
come-out  young  lady,  playing  her  part  among 
grown  up  men  and  women.  She  knows  nothing 
of  ballroom  ethics  ;  does  not  surmise  that  a  posi- 
tion, admitted  to  be  correct  when  in  rapid  move- 
ment, should  be  open  to  animadversion  when  in 
repose.  Looking  up,  however,  toward  an  open 
French  window  near  which  they  stand,  it  chances 
that  she  catches  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Yivash  and 
Wolfgang.  The  master's  head  is  in  shadow. 
Jeanne  can  see  the  face  of  Vivian — clear  in  the 
lamp-light,  as  a  delicate  cameo  upon  a  setting  of 
dusky  green  background. 

A  faint  little  sneer  is  round  Beauty's  lips;  con- 


176  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY 

temptuous  is  the  expression  of  her  half-closed 
eyes.  And  Jeanne's  heart  sickens.  In  this  mo- 
ment it  is  given  her  to  taste  of  the  tree  of  mun- 
dane knowledge,  and,  with  a  cold  chill,  she  real- 
izes that  its  flavor  is  bitter,  exceedingly. 

"Let  us  waltz,  of  course,"  she  cries  impetu- 
ously. "Waltz,  like  other  civilized  people,  or 
walk  about,  or  sit  down.  Why  in  the  world,  Sir 
Christopher,  are  we  making  ourselves  so  ridicu- 
lous?" 

They  waltz  —  they  waltz  to  perfection.  Can 
Jeanne  help  it  that,  though  her  spirit  be  heavy, 
her  step  is  buoyant?  Her  peasant  hat  is  slung 
across  her  arm,  the  Raphael  red  hair  hangs  loose 
and  shining  round  her  throat.  A  light,  whose 
fountain  source  a  less  vain  man  than  Sir  Christo- 
pher might  fail  to  guess  at,  is  in  her  dark,  implor- 
ing eyes. 

"  If  Badenweiler  were  at  the  Antipodes,'  twould 
be  worth  the  journey  to  have  one  such  dance," 
he  whispers,  when  the  fiddling  dies  into  silence. 
"It  is  not  waltzing,  as  we  in  London  know  the 
word — 'tis  music  turned  into  motion.  A  man  as 
old  as  Methuselah,  as  gouty  as  the  Duke  of  Beau- 
jolais,  would  have  life  put  into  him  by  such  a 
partner.  Yes,  Miss  Dempster,  a  couple  of  turns 
with  you  would  put  fire  into  a  stone." 

As  he  indulges  in  this  bold  and  original  trope, 
they  pass  out  of  the  ballroom  into  the  erkerweg, 
a  trellised  wooden  veranda,  overgrown  with  ja- 


IN   SILK   ATTIRE.  177 

ponica,  sweet-briar,  and  passion-flower  that  runs 
round  two  thirds  of  the  Kursaal  building.  Wolf- 
gang and  Vivian,  slowly  pacing,  side  by  side,  in 
the  warm  hushed  darkness,  come  across  them. 

"  What  are  those  vain  regrets  that  you  are  in- 
dulging in,  Sir  Christopher  ?  "  cries  Miss  Vivash, 
looking  sharply  back  at  him  across  her  shoulder. 
"  Methuselah  —  the  Duke  of  Beaujolais  !  Will 
experience  never  bring  you  beyond  that  first  vol- 
ume of  the  romance  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  one  has  a  foolish  fancy  for 
studying  a  new  romance  altogether,"  says  Kit 
Marlowe  readily.  "A  romance  likely  to  leave 
one  —  for  a  change  after  too  much  of  Zola  and 
Daudet — with  a  good  taste  in  one's  mouth.  And 
you  ?  " 

"  We  are  spectators,"  says  Wolfgang,  before 
Vivian  can  reply.  "  Spectators  looking  on  with 
quiet  curiosity,  while  moths  burn  their  wings, 
and  children,"  he  gives  a  momentary  glance  at 
Jeanne's  flushed  cheek,  "  their  fingers." 

Sir  Christopher  shakes  his  head  gravely  as 
the  pair  continue  their  walk  ;  the  master  talking 
low  and  earnestly,  as  though  his  theme  moved 
him — Miss  Vivash  listening  with  bent-down  face, 
with  an  air,  real  or  admirably  dissembled,  of  half 
reluctant  submission. 

"  I  have  not  had  over  much  experience  of  phi- 
losophers, personally,"  he  observes.  "  And  as  yet, 
I  can  not  say  I  have  got  to  the  stage  of  liking 
12 


178  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

them.  "Tis  a  taste,  like  that  for  olives  or  cavi- 
are, no  doubt,  that  wants  education.  Still,  Miss 
Dempster,  I  am  sorry  for  your  Herr  Wolfgang. 
Whatever  his  sins  of  priggishness,  or  otherwise, 
the  Teuton  is  too  good  for  the  evil  quarter  of  an 
hour  that  lies  before  him." 

"  My  Herr  Wolfgang  !  "  repeats  Jeanne  pas- 
sionately. "Say  Miss  Vivash's  Herr  Wolfgang 
— anybody's  Herr  Wolfgang,  rather  than  mine  !  " 

"  Ach,  ist  dass  so  ?  I  have  progressed,  you  see, 
in  German,  as  well  as  in  other  accomplishments, 
since  I  came  to  Schloss  Egmont.  Miss  Vivash's 
Herr  Wolfgang,  then,  as  you  prefer  the  phrase, 
has  an  evil  quarter  of  an  hour  in  store  for  him. 
Let  Miss  Vivash's  Herr  Wolfgang  take  care  of 
himself.  You  and  I,  little  Jeanne,  for  our  part, 
will  burn  our  wings  and  our  fingers  just  as  badly 
as  we  choose  !  " 

Jeanne  answers  not ;  and  her  companion,  no 
greater  coxcomb,  probably,  than  his  peers,  regards 
her  silence  as  an  expression  of  consciousness.  Sir 
Christopher's  own  heart  begins  to  grow  soft.  Poor 
Jeanne,  with  her  big  dark  eyes,  her  blushes,  her 
dimples — she  really  is  a  charming  little  girl,  red 
hair,  doubtful  English,  and  freckles  notwithstand- 
ing. At  any  rate  she  is  not  a  Beauty — a  positive 
charm  to  a  man  who,  like  Kit  Marlowe,  has  fallen 
madly  in  love  with  a  Beauty  reputation  once,  and 
outlived  his  madness  ! 

Within  thirty  steps  of  the  Kursaal  is  a  lime 


IN  SILK   ATTIRE.  179 

avenue,  fragrant,  though  no  longer  crowned  with 
the  nectared  sweetness  of  its  bee-haunted  July 
prime.  Thither  Sir  Christopher  leads  his  partner. 
No  perceptible  breath  of  wind  stirs  upon  the 
earth's  face  ;  but  high  among  the  trees  little  soft 
airs  must  be  stirring,  for  you  can  hear  the  shiver- 
ing of  light  boughs,  the  kissing  of  the  leaves  over- 
head. Flowers,  shrubs,  grass,  send  forth  the  pun- 
gent odor  that  prophesies  on  a  sultry  summer  night 
of  rain.  The  sky  is  low-hanging,  black  ;  only  the 
lamps  hung  at  uncertain  intervals,  along  the  gar- 
den pathways,  enable  one  to  see  one's  way. 

Jeanne  is  blinded  somewhat,  after  the  ball- 
room's brilliant  light,  it  may  be  from  some  other 
foolish  cause  ;  and  her  foot  slips.  Sir  Christopher 
saves  her  from  falling  ;  at  the  same  time  he  gets 
possession  of  her  hand,  holds  it  tenderly  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  then  draws  it  through  his  arm. 

"  And  ye  sail  walk  in  silk  attire, 
And  siller  ha'e  to  spare." 

So  he  sings  with  theatrical  attitude  and  spirit ; 
the  long  perspective  of  avenue,  the  lamplit  "  slips," 
the  distant  Kursaal  fiddles,  heightening  the  dra- 
matic effect  of  the  scene. 

"  Gin  ye'll  consent  to  be  his  bride, 
Nor  think  of  Donald  mair." 

Sir  Christopher's  voice  is  not  without  a  certain 
canary-like  sweetness  ;  yet  does  its  quality  fit  it 


180  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

rather  for  music-hall  burlesque  or  nigger  melody 
than  for  pathetic  ballad.  And  Jeanne  begins  to 
laugh. 

Laughter  and  tears  both  lie  nearer  to  the  sur- 
face with  her  to-night  than  is  their  wont. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to  have  it  out  about  that 
*  some  one,' "  says  Sir  Christopher,  harking  back 
to  their  ballroom  conversation.  "  Your  ambition, 
I  believe,  is  bounded  by  five  hundred  a  year  pin- 
money,  unlimited  opportunities  of  going  into 
debt—" 

"  And  every  two  months  a  bonus  in  the  shape 
of  jewelry.  The  last  few  days  have  taught  me  the 
weighty  influence  of  bracelets  on  human  happi- 
ness. Don't  forget  the  jewelry." 

"  It  shall  be  put  in  the  settlements,  if  you  like. 
I  can  not  speak  fairer  than  that.  Miss  Dempster, 
when  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

He  has  an  intention,  Jeanne  divines,  of  again 
taking  possession  of  her  hand  !  She  snatches  it 
quickly  from  his  arm,  and  turning  aside,  buries 
her  face  amid  the  blooming  odorous  masses  of  a 
honeysuckle  that  overhangs  the  path.  A  horrible 
suspicion  that  Sir  Christopher  thinks  her  in  ear- 
nest makes  her  flush  hot  with  shame. 

"  If  by  '  settlements '  you  mean  when  you  shall 
remember  me  in  your  will,  sir,  you  may  set  about 
it  as  speedily  as  you  like.  Considering  you  are 
just  ten  years  my  senior,  I  shall  be  tolerably  ad- 
vanced in  life  before  I  come  into  my  inheritance." 


IN   SILK   ATTIRE.  181 

"  Oh,  wha  would  buy  a  silken  gown 
TVT  a  puir  broken  heart  ? " 

"Jeanne,"  cries  Sir  Christopher  fervently, 
"  are  you  crying  ?  No  !  I  could  have  sworn  I 
heard  a  sob.  Jeanne,  don't  walk  so  quick,"  for 
all  this  time  she  has  been  getting  on  steadily 
ahead,  "and  confess  the  truth.  Is  your  gentle 
heart  melting  ?  " 

He  overtakes  her ;  ere  Jeanne  has  time  to 
suspect,  or  contravene  his  design,  steals  his  arm 
around  her  waist. 

"  Is  your  heart  melting  ?  "  he  repeats.  "  Does 
the  thought  of  pin-money  touch  you  ?  Speak  ;  I 
can  bear  anything  but  suspense." 

"  If  I  could  have  the  pin-money  without  in- 
cumbrances,"  she  observed,  "  you  would  not  have 
long  to  wait  for  my  answer." 

"  Meanwhile,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Meanwhile,  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe,  I  think 
it  would  be  quite  as  nice  if  you  were  to  leave  off 
speaking  affectionately,  and,  please,  could  we  not 
manage  to  walk  farther  apart  ?  Surely,  the  path 
is  broad  enough  for  us  both  ?  " 

But  Jeanne's  opinions  are  not  those  of  Sir 
Christopher  Marlowe.  He  does  not  leave  off 
speaking  affectionately.  Although  the  path  is 
broad,  they  do  not  walk  any  farther  apart. 

"You  have  seen  my  character  on  one  side 
only."  So,  after  a  little  space,  he  begins  again. 


182  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  Naturally  and  logically  you  think  me  a 
fool." 

"I  do  not,  indeed,"  cries  the  girl,  conscience- 
stricken.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  think  in  many 
things — oh,  ever  so  many  things — you  are  " — she 
stammers,  casting  about  her  for  a  word — "  are 
very  clever." 

"  A  clever  fool !  You  are  trying  to  let  me 
down  as  easily  as  you  can.  I  thank  you  for  the 
intention.  A  fool,  gifted  enough,  like  Dundreary, 
to  ask  a  widdle,  forgetting  the  answer  ;  to  sing  a 
mild  comic  song  (music  hall  and  water)  ;  whistle 
a  waltz ;  lead  a  cotillon ;  and,  generally,  go 
through  whatever  monkey  tricks  may,  as  a  pro- 
fessional funny  man,  be  required  of  me  by  soci- 
ety. Yes,  Jeanne,  I  am  all  this.  I  am  something 
more.  If  a  sweet,  simple  little  girl  gave  me  her 
love,  I  believe  I  am  not  such  a  fool  but  that  I 
could  keep  it — ay,  and  wear  it  worthily." 

The  sharpest  pang  of  remorse  she  has  ever 
known  stabs  Jeanne's  heart.  A  big  lump  rises  in 
her  throat.  In  another  moment,  unless  she  takes 
care  what  she  is  about,  she  will  infallibly  have 
promised  to  become  Kit  Marlowe's  wife. 

"And  ye  sail  walk  in  silk  attire." 

"Unfortunately,  you  have  been  defectively 
educated.  You  do  not  care  for  silk  attire,  or 
siller,  either.  The  question  is — Donald.  Is  there 
a  Donald  in  the  case,  Jeanne  ?  You  have  only  to 


IN  SILK  ATTIRE.  183 

tell  me  so,  and  I  withdraw.  *  If  she  be  not  made 
for  me,  what  care  I,'  et  cetera.  Is  there  a  Don- 
ald?" 

"  I  felt  a  drop  of  rain  on  my  nose,"  answers 
Jeanne,  vainly  trying  to  escape  from  him.  "  One, 
two — we  shall  have  a  thunder-storm  !  Ange  and 
Hans  both  predicted  it  when  we  started,  and  none 
of  us  brought  our  waterproofs." 

"  Rain,  or  no  rain,  I  intend  that  you  shall  give 
me  an  answer.  Is  there,"  putting  the  question 
slowly  and  syllabically,  "  a  Donald  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  ! "  she  ex- 
claims, growing  frightened.  "Who  is  Donald? 
We  have  no  people  of  that  name  in  the  Schwarz- 
wald,  and  I  think  I  would  like  to  go  back  to  the 
ballroom,  if  you  please.  It  is  raining  in  earnest, 
and  Ange  will  not  give  me  another  hat  before 
Michaelmas." 

Sir  Christopher  moves  a  couple  of  steps  away 
from  her. 

"You  are  a  child,"  he  remarks,  somewhat 
coolly,  "but  you  are  old  enough  to  know  that 
what  I  say  now  is  no  joke.  Oh,  there  is  no  rain 
to  hurt.  You  can  stay  here  long  enough  to  give 
me  an  answer,  without  spoiling  your  ribbons. 
As  you  will  not  speak  about  third  persons,  as 
Donald's  is  to  be  a  name  tabooed,  we  will  confine 
our  thoughts  to  ourselves.  Fraulein  Jeanne,  do 
you  detest  me  ?  " 

"  Detest  you — no  !  "  she  exclaims,  with  prompt 


184  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

compunction.  "  Why,  Sir  Christopher,  I  should 
be  a  wretch  if  I  were  not  very  fond — I  mean  very 
grateful — I  mean — " 

"I  believe  I  know  better  what  you  mean 
than  you  know  yourself,"  interrupts  Kit  Marlowe, 
sotto  voce. 

"  You,  who  always  take  my  part,  who  never 
laugh  at  me — no,  for  even  that  first  dreadful  day 
at  dinner,  you  laughed  good-naturedly.  And  the 
time  passes  so  quickly  when  we  are  together, 
and—" 

"  And  we  match  in  height !  And  our  step, 
when  we  waltz.  Janet,  I  say  it,  without  vanity, 
you  will  never  find  any  fellow,  even  among  your 
beloved  Germans,  whose  step  suits  you  half  as 
well  as  mine.  Will  you  have  me  ?  " 

Even  as  he  speaks,  comes  a  lightning  flash,  ac- 
companied, rather  than  followed,  by  a  very  artil- 
lery of  thunder  ;  and  then  the  rain,  hot,  deluging 
rain,  the  specialty  of  the  Black  Forest  climate, 
begins  to  rush  down  in  sheets.  Jeanne  and  Sir 
Christopher  creep  under  shelter  of  a  lime  tree, 
somewhat  more  thickly  spreading  than  its  fellows, 
and  with  the  big  drops  falling  in  ever  increasing 
volume  on  their  heads,  proceed  with  their  "love 
scene." 

"  Will  you  have  me  ?  "  repeats  Sir  Christopher, 
and  pretty  loudly  ;  the  rolling  of  the  thunder,  the 
incessant  splashing  of  the  rain,  put  amative  whis- 
pers out  of  the  question. 


IN  SILK  ATTIRE.  185 

"I  wish  I  could  have  an  umbrella,"  says 
Jeanne,  with  a  wretched  attempt  at  a  laugh. 
"An  umbrella  and  a  waterproof  would  be  more 
to  the  point  than  silk  attire  just  at  present." 

"  We  are  not  talking  of  silk  attire  ;  and  coque- 
try, let  me  tell  you,  child,  does  not  sit  well  on  you. 
Come  !  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  A  set  of  rib- 
bons might  not  matter,  but  I  will  not  ask  you  to 
catch  a  cold  for  my  sake.  Yes  or  no,  Janet  ?  " 

The  light  from  a  neighboring  lamp  gleams  fit- 
fully upon  them  at  this  juncture.  Jeanne  catches 
a  glimpse  of  Kit  Marlowe's  roseate,  dapper,  most 
unlover-like  face,  and  takes  courage. 

"  Yes  or  no  ?  As  if  there  could  be  any  doubt 
as  to  my  answer  !  Yes,  of  course,  a  hundred 
times,  yes.  You  are  rich,  Sir  Christopher,  and  a 
Hochwohlgeboren.  Could  I  be  ignorant  enough 
to  say  '  no '  to  a  Herr  Baron  ?  I,  a  pauper  with 
one  mark  a  week — that  is  the  allowance  Ange 
makes  me,  sir,  and  to  find  myself  in  gloves,  col- 
lars, neckties,  and  the  pastor's  plate  on  Sundays." 

"  There  must  be  a  Donald  in  the  case,"  says 
Sir  Christopher,  taking  off  his  hat,  and  emptying 
out  a  pond  of  water  from  its  brim.  "  Well,  my 
dear,  the  day  may  arrive  when  he  and  you  will 
discover  that  virtuous  attachment  is  a  snare  ;  and 
a  cottage,  vanity.  If  it  does,  and  I  am  living,  no 
matter  how  bald,  and  gouty,  and  prosy,  come  to 
me.  You  may,  at  least,  promise  that." 

"  And  be  your  housekeeper,  a  new  edition  of 


186  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Ange,  with  account  books  that  won't  come  straight, 
blue  cap-ribbons,  and  flounces.  Well,  yes  ;  if  the 
place  is  not  already  more  suitably  filled,"  says 
Jeanne,  with  significance,  "  I  promise." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  more  suitably  filled  ?  " 
cries  Sir  Christopher  in  a  suddenly  sobered  voice. 

"I  mean — oh,  I  mean  just  what  I  say,  sir," 
she  answers  innocently.  "When  your  cousin, 
Lady  Pamela,  marries  again,  as  in  the  common 
course  of  things  she  will,  and  you  are  left  alone  in 
the  world,  why,  naturally,  you  will  want  a  house- 
keeper, me  or  somebody  else,  to  take  care  of 
you." 

Sir  Christopher  Marlowe's  face  could  not  under 
any  circumstances  be  tragic ;  but  at  this  sugges- 
tion of  little  Jeanne's,  his  expression  turns  black 
as  the  clouds  above  them.  At  no  point  of  their 
love  scene,  such  love  scene  as  it  was,  did  he  look 
half  so  moved. 

"  My  cousin,  Lady  Pamela,  has  a  vast  deal  too 
much  nous  to  take  a  second  husband — after  such 
an  experience  as  her  first  !  And  if  she  did,  it 
would  make  no  difference  in  our  relations.  Lady 
Pamela  and  I  have  grown  up  together,  have  quar- 
reled, kissed  and  quarreled,  like  brother  and  sis- 
ter, all  our  lives." 

"  Then  of  course,  sir,  if  a  second  marriage  was 
for  Lady  Pamela's  happiness,  her  brother  would 
not  say  nay  ?  " 

"  Lady  Pamela  has  a  vast  deal  too  much  nous 


IN  SILK  ATTIRE  187 

to  take  a  second  husband,"  repeats  Sir  Christo- 
pher, the  subject  evidently  not  supplying  him 
with  any  large  stock  of  original  ideas. 

"  At  any  rate,"  observes  Jeanne,  "  you  have 
my  promise.  When  Lady  Pamela  is — amusing 
herself  somewhere,  in  the  world,  as  there  must  be 
no  talk  of  a  second  marriage — and  when  you  are 
old,  prosy,  gouty,  and  want  a  housekeeper,  I  will 
come  to  you." 

"  If  you  and  Donald  chance  to  have  discovered, 
meanwhile,  that  you  '  are  not  each  other's  affini- 
ties.' " 

"  How  often  must  I  tell  you  that  I  never  in 
my  life  knew  any  one  called  Donald  ?  " 

Jeanne  turns  from  him  pettishly,  then  launches 
boldly  forth  into  the  rain. 

"  And  how  am  I  to  know  that  Donald  is  not 
High  Dutch  for  Wolfgang?"  asks  Sir  Christo- 
pher, following  in  her  steps.  "  Jeanne,  my  dear, 
I  believe,  after  all  this,  we  shall  both  die  and 
worms  eat  us,  but  'twill  be  from  a  pleurisy,  take 
my  word  for  it,  not  from  love  !  " 

They  skirt  as  best  they  may  under  shelter  of 
the  lindens  while  shelter  lasts.  Then  comes  an 
open  gravel  space  which  must  be  taken  by  assault, 
and  then,  blinded,  dripping,  with  sentiment  blown 
and  scattered  to  the  winds,  they  find  themselves 
under  cover  of  the  Kursaal  veranda. 

The  Venetians  of  the  windows  are  up.  Jeanne 
looks  in  :  she  sees,  strikingly  contrasted  with  her 


188  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

own  wet,  disheveled  condition,  the  beauties  of 
the  ballroom,  pink,  blue,  and  green,  as  they  whirl 
round  in  the  arms  of  spurred  and  epauletted  part- 
ners. Lady  Pamela  and  her  Faust  remain  faith- 
ful to  each  other.  Vivian  is  waltzing. 

For  an  instant's  space  Jeanne  does  not  recog- 
nize the  Beauty's  partner.  She  catches  glimpses 
only  of  the  training  Derby  white,  of  an  upheld 
snowy  wrist,  a  gleaming  bracelet.  An  instant's 
space  !  Then  an  opening  in  the  crowd  brings  the 
faces  of  both  dancers  full  before  her.  Vivian's 
partner  is  Wolfgang. 

"  Man  proposes,  but  woman  fulfills,"  says  Sir 
Christopher  Marlowe.  "  The  serpent  is  beguiled 
of  Eve.  The  philosophy  of  the  Teuton  has  turned 
to  foolishness." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THOSE    HOEKIBLE    PHOTOGKAPHEKS  ! 

THE  waltz,  ere  long,  changes  to  a  mazurka  ; 
but  Vivian  and  the  master  continue  partners. 
Under  pretext  of  reassuring  Lady  Pamela  as  to 
her  safety,  Jeanne  has  dispatched  Sir  Christopher 
into  the  ballroom  ;  and,  sick  in  spirit,  chilled, 
wretched  in  the  flesh,  she  stands  alone,  screened 
from  observation  by  the  darkness,  an  outside 
watcher  of  the  scene. 


THOSE  HORRIBLE  PHOTOGRAPHERS!        189 

The  sleek  head  of  Beauty  reposes  on  Wolf- 
gang's shoulder — an  attitude,  let  me  say,  not  in 
vogue  among  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the 
fatherland.  His  whispers  make  her  smile  as  they 
glide  round  in  swift,  smooth  unison  with  the  mu- 
sic, the  two  the  most  noticeable  pair  of  dancers  in 
the  room.  Lady  Pamela,  cruelly  abandoning  her 
Faust,  has  taken  pity  on  Kit  Marlowe.  The 
many-colored  Frauleins  and  their  warriors  gyrate 
merrily.  Flute,  violin,  and  bassoon  play  their 
loudest. 

What  cares  the  herd  for  the  shorn  lamb  ?  What 
matters  it  to  fifty  or  sixty  wildly-spinning  human 
creatures  that  one  forlorn  child  should  be  break- 
ing her  jealous  heart  in  the  rain  and  darkness  of 
the  night  ? 

All  the  sorrows,  all  the  losses  she  has  known 
during  her  little  span  of  life  crowd  back,  in  this 
drear  moment,  on  Jeanne's  memory.  The  pink- 
cheeked  doll — her  first  great  anguish — who  was 
fondly  hushed  to  sleep  in  an  August  sun,  and  who 
"woke,"  a  ghastly  heap  of  wax,  blonde  wig,  saw- 
dust, and  eyes  !  The  wounded  robin  she  nursed 
so  tenderly,  and  who  obstinately  declined  either 
to  sing  songs  in  his  cage  or  to  recover  !  The  tor- 
toise-shell cats,  a  long-doomed  race,  who  used  to 
vanish,  generation  after  generation,  by  violence 
or  treachery  from  her  arms  !  What  is  life,  she 
thinks,  attaining  in  a  leap  to  Solomon's  philoso- 
phy, but  loss  ?  Loving  passionately  to-day  that 


190  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

which,  shall  be  empty  air  to-morrow,  and  discern- 
ing meaning  neither  in  our  love  nor  in  our  loss  ? 

A  fear,  the  ghost  of  a  suspicion,  rather, 
flashes  across  her  that  in  the  last  half  hour  she 
has  acted  like  a  fool  ;  honestly,  it  may  be,  accord- 
ing to  the  notions  she  once  had  of  such  matters, 
but  like  a  fool— has  taken  happiness  (or  what 
might  have  passed  very  decently  well  for  happi- 
ness) between  her  two  hands,  and  wantonly  thrown 
it — as  a  child  disappointed  of  the  moon  throws 
its  toy — away  from  her. 

Sir  Christopher  Marlowe  is  young,  accom- 
plished, likable  ;  better  than  all,  Sir  Christopher 
Marlowe  is  rich.  When  Jeanne  first  heard  Lady 
Pamela  discourse  of  high-stepping  horses,  Paris 
milliners,  good  dinners,  well-looking  partners,  she 
remembers  that  she  listened  with  a  kind  of  envy; 
felt  that  in  herself  were  as  keen  capabilities  for 
pleasure  as  in  any  Lady  Pamela,  any  Hyde  Park 
goddess  of  them  all.  As  Sir  Christopher  Mar- 
lowe's wife,  whatever  else  were  piteously  want- 
ing, these  things,  at  least,  had  lain  to  her  hand. 
For  the  sake  of  what  vain  dream  has  she  rejected 
them — her  master's  love,  perhaps,  her  master's 
fidelity  ! 

Jeanne  Dempster  has  not  far  to  seek,  she  has 
not  long  to  wait,  ere  that  question  be  practically 
answered. 

A  covered  pathway,  or  veranda,  extends,  as 
I  have  said,  round  two  thirds  of  the  Kursaal. 


THOSE  HORRIBLE  PHOTOGRAPHERS  !        191 

On  the  north  side,  where  Jeanne  stands,  this  ve- 
randa is  sheltered ;  the  newly-risen  southwest 
wind  bearing  away  the  rain  as  it  descends  from 
the  steep,  tiled  roof  above,  in  sheets.  The  air  is 
sweet  with  the  thousand  odors  that  the  silent 
chemistry  of  summer  rain  distils  from  thirsty, 
grateful  earth.  It  has  grown  cool,  almost  keen; 
and  when  the  mazurka  is  finished  a  score  or  so 
of  men  and  girls  come  forth  to  enjoy  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  night — perhaps  to  exchange  a  little 
whispered  sentiment  beyond  the  watchful  ken  of 
chaperon  or  of  rival. 

Two  of  the  number  linger  longer  than  the 
rest,  Wolfgang  and  his  partner.  At  first  Jeanne 
feels  secure  from  observation,  expecting  at  every 
moment  to  see  them  reenter  the  ballroom  with 
the  crowd.  Presently,  Miss  Vivash,  it  would  seem, 
taking  the  initiative,  they  extend  their  walk  along 
the  more  dimly  lighted  portions  of  the  veranda. 
They  approach  nearer  and  nearer,  and  Jeanne's 
breath  comes  thick.  Hemmed  in  on  all  sides  but 
one  by  storm  and  darkness,  what  choice  has  she 
left  but  to  hide  herself?  A  thickly-trellised 
screen  of  ivy  shuts  off  the  veranda  from  the  gar- 
den at  two  or  three  yards'  distance,  and  behind 
this,  her  heart  beating  loud  and  fast,  she  creeps. 

Miss  Vivash  and  Wolfgang  stop  short.  She 
can  see  their  faces  distinctly  ;  with  morbid  acute- 
ness,  born  of  jealousy,  every  faculty  concentrated 
on  one  sense,  can  hear  each  word  they  utter  more 


192  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

clearly  than  she  ever  heard  human  speech  at  any 
prior  moment  of  her  life. 

"  Yes,"  observes  Beauty,  in  her  lowest,  lan- 
guidest  tones,  evidently  in  reply  to  some  remark 
of  Wolfgang's.  "  Jeanne  is,  no  doubt — er — di- 
verting, in  her  way,  quite  a  curiosity — ah — for 
those  who  appreciate  the  kind  of  thing  !  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  much  taste  for  unearthly,  Top- 
sy-like  children,  myself.  Time,  perhaps,  and  ex- 
perience, may  give  the  creature  feeling.  I  remem- 
ber being  told  by  a  celebrated  author  at  a  dinner 
— you  can  understand  the  celebrities  all  trying  to 
get  next  me — that  the  one  gift  a  writer  might 
attain  by  practice  was  originality,  just  what  the 
crowd  and  Dogberry  would  say  comes  by  nature. 
It  may  be  the  same  with  heart." 

How  differently  Vivian  talks  with  no  member 
of  her  own  sex  near  !  Her  mind  seems  to  have 
taken  up  new  thoughts,  her  very  voice  to  have 
acquired  new  modulations. 

"  Whatever  Jeanne's  faults  may  be,  I  should 
certainly  not  reckon  want  of  heart  among  them," 
says  the  master. 

"  No  ?  Well,  with  your  discernment  of  char- 
acter you  are  pretty  certain  to  be  right.  (And  I 
fear  you  are  awfully  discerning,  Mr.  Wolfgang  ! 
I  often  tell  Lady  Pamela  T  could  not  keep  a  secret 
hid  from  you.)  Besides,  you  know  Jeanne  so  very 
much  better  than  I  do.  And  I'm  sure,"  with  a 
sigh,  "  one  should  be  charitable,  when  one  remem- 


THOSE  HORRIBLE  PHOTOGRAPHERS!        193 

bers  one's  own  failings.  Naturally,  at  her  age, 
the  enjoyment  of  the  moment,  the  love  of  change 
and  attention  are  everything.  It  requires  an  ed- 
ucation to  teach  one  to  suffer  !  Yes,  and  to  go 
through  that  teaching  thoroughly,  to  learn  how  to 
feel,  and  at  the  same  time  to  know  the  madness 
of  feeling,  a  life  of  the  world,  such  as  mine,  is 
needed  ! " 

She  rests  her  elbows  on  the  balustrade  of  the 
veranda  ;  then  lightly  bows  down  her  cheek  on 
her  clasped  hands.  The  attitude  is  charmingly 
photographic  ;  well  considered,  well  executed.  It 
brings  every  best  point  of  Vivian's  face  into  re- 
lief. It  brings  Vivian  herself,  through  a  quick, 
scarcely  perceptible  change  of  position,  a  foot  or 
so  nearer  to  the  master. 

Jeanne  bethinks  her  of  her  own  plainness. 
Convulsively  clasping  a  fold  of  her  drenched  skirt 
within  her  hands,  she  realizes  the  contrast  that 
exists  at  this  moment  between  her  rival  and  her- 
self :  Vivian  in  her  shining  white  silk  (that  does 
duty,  like  some  clap-trap  sentiments,  for  fresh, 
by  lamp-light)  ;  with  her  fair,  calm  face,  her 
trained  low  voice,  her  self-command — and  she, 
Jeanne,  rough,  ill-dressed,  graceless,  with  her 
heart  on  fire,  with  her  cheeks,  at  no  time  alabas- 
ter, burning  under  the  mingled  influence  of  rain, 
wretchedness,  and  tears  ! 

Happily  she  is  well  hidden  out  of  sight,  and 
likely  to  remain  so.  The  night  continues  dark  as 
13 


194  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

Erebus.  The  lovers,  if  lovers  they  be,  are  too 
thoroughly  engrossed  in  themselves,  and  in  their 
own  hopes  and  fears,  to  pay  attention  to  shadows. 

"No  man  knows  where  his  neighbor's  shoe 
pinches,"  says  Wolfgang  somewhat  skeptically. 
"Judging  only  from  the  surface  of  things,  I 
should  not  say  that  suffering  and  Miss  Vivash 
had  made  intimate  acquaintance.  Has  there  been 
one  crumpled  rose-leaf,  half  a  one — " 

"  In  the  velvet-piled  couch  fate  has  given  me 
to  repose  on  ?  "  Vivian  interrupts  ;  and,  lifting  her 
face,  she  gives  him  a  very  full  gaze,  then  hastily 
turns  away.  "  Even  in  your  life,  Mr.  Wolfgang, 
even  in  the  wilds  of  Germany,  you  may  have 
heard,"  actually  there  is  an  approach  to  a  blush 
upon  her  cheek,  "  that  I  am — or  was,  for,  if  my 
friends  say  true,  my  reign  is  over — that  unfortu- 
nate product  of  civilization  called  by  the  loungers 
at  London  club  doors,  f  A  Beauty '  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  fact  to  be  divined,  a  story  that  needs 
no  telling,"  says  Wolfgang  gallantly,  yet  with  a 
certain  coldness  in  his  voice.  "  A  man  who  has 
eyes  to  see,  and  a  heart  to  feel,  needs  not  the  ver- 
dict of  St.  James's  Street  to  confirm  his  taste." 

"  St.  James's  Street !  "  cries  Miss  Yivash,  lift- 
ing up  her  head,  and  rapidly  making  good  her  re- 
treat from  the  debatable  land  of  sentiment. 
"  Oh  !  You  know  more  of  London,  then,  than 
we  have  given  you  credit  for,  Mr.  Wolfgang  ?  " 

"  I  know  most  of  the  world's  capitals,  from 


THOSE   HORRIBLE   PHOTOGRAPHERS!         195  ' 

the  outside,"  he  replies.  "  My  business  calls  me 
to  London  yearly,  a  very  different  business,  a  very 
different  London,  to  anything  that  comes  within 
the  experience  of  Miss  Vivash."' 

"  London  is  London.  You  must  mix  in  some 
kind  of  society,"  she  persists.  "  You  must  see 
the  Exhibition  surely,  go  to  the  theatres,  read  the 
papers  ?  Whatever  your  occupation,  if  you  have 
been  in  town  during  the  last  two  seasons,  you  can 
scarcely  have  failed,  one  would  think,  to  know  my 
face  ?  " 

"  Every  one  who  has  passed  a  Regent  Street 
photographer's  window  must  do  that,"  answers 
Wolfgang  evasively. 

"  Those  horrible  photographers  !  We  talked 
just  now  of  the  education  of  pain.  The  number 
of  times  I  have  been  forced  to  sit  for  my  portrait 
may  be  set,  I  should  hope,  against  a  few  of  my 
sins." 

"Have  been  forced"  repeats  the  master,  itali- 
cizing the  words  somewhat  pointedly.  "  I  can 
imagine  it  coming  among  a  fashionable  Beauty's 
sorrows  to  be  stared  at  by  the  mob,  copied  by  the 
milliners,  interviewed  by  correspondents  of  pro- 
vincial newspapers.  Surely,  there  can  be  no  law 
in  England  compelling  her  to  sit,  against  her  will, 
to  the  photographers,  and  surely,"  adds  Wolf- 
gang, "  there  must  be  a  law  in  England  to  restrain 
the  photographers  from  making  a  traffic  of  her 
likeness." 


196  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

It  would  seem  that  Miss  Vivash  desires  not  to 
pursue  the  question. 

"  I  am  sick  of  the  name  of  Beauty,  as  I  am 
sick  of  the  whole  life  it  involves,"  she  exclaims, 
with  pretty  irrelevance  — "  mob,  special  corre- 
spondents, photographers,  St.  James's  Street,  and 
all.  I  am  sick  of  being  fed  on  sugar-candy,  of 
being  sprinkled  with  rose-water.  I  want  the 
solid  fire-side  joys,  that  come  to  other  people 
naturally."  And  as  she  says  this,  there  is  an  un- 
mistakable tremor  in  her  voice.  "  I  want  to  be 
as  I  was  in  pa's  quiet  little  Devonshire  village, 
only  with  one  heart  to  care  for  me,  one  pair  of  eyes 
to  look  on  me  as  a  woman — not  a  London  sight, 
like  the  infant  hippopotamus  at  the  Zoological,  or 
Madame  Tussaud's  latest  waxwork  murderer." 

She  wants  .  .  .to  set  her  foot  upon  an- 
other neck  !  Sated  though  she  declares  herself 
to  be  of  rose-water  celebrity,  the  pastime  of  break- 
ing simple  hearts  has  not  for  certain  lost  its  zest. 
She  would  enjoy  the  pain  even  of  an  obscure  Ger- 
man professor,  ere  she  dismiss  him  and  his  passion 
from  her  thoughts  for  ever.  The  greed  of  con- 
quest has,  in  truth,  reached  a  point  in  Vivian 
Vivash  at  which  it  becomes  a  moral  disease.  She 
lives  only  to  be  admired,  honestly,  if  possible,  but 
admired  ;  and  if  a  victim  draw  back,  would  over- 
step the  limits  of  self-respect  rather  than  see  him 
break,  scatheless,  from  her  toils. 

But  "Wolfgang's  heart  is  tough.     Surrender, 


THOSE  HORRIBLE  PHOTOGRAPHERS!        197 

no  doubt  he  will — yes,  in  this  very  forthcoming 
"  evil  quarter  of  an  hour  ! "  But  not  without  a 
struggle.  He  knows  most  of  the  world's  capitals, 
from  the  outside,  at  least,  possibly  he  may  have 
learned  a  few  of  the  world's  ways,  in  his  day ; 
have  come  across  women  of  equal  beauty  with 
this  one,  and  of  equal  worth  ! 

"  You  talk  of  a  little  Devonshire  village — 
how  would  the  quiet  of  German  country  life  suit 
you  ? "  he  asks,  presently — "  a  game  at  six-and- 
sixty  for  your  amusement  in  winter,  three  weeks 
of  mineral-water  drinking  for  your  summer  dissi- 
pation, and  a  good  marital  stocking  on  the  knit- 
ting pins  at  all  times — such  a  lot,  let  us  say,  as 
would  fall  to  the  mistress,  did  she  exist,  of  Schloss 
Egmont  ?  " 

"  Schloss  Egmont  ?  I  should  die,  I  should 
commit  suicide,  if  I  remained  another  six  weeks 
in  that  hideous  place  !  "  In  her  desire  to  appease 
Wolfgang's  prophetic  jealousy,  Vivian  allows  her- 
self for  once  to  speak  as  she  feels,  without  let  or 
hindrance.  "  Those  howling  woods  !  Those  pov- 
erty-stricken gardens  !  (The  peasants  are  right, 
I  am  sure.  Every  kind  of  ghostly  demon  must 
inhabit  them.)  The  suites  of  rooms,  each  more 
chill,  more  comfortless  than  the  other  !  And  the 
portraits,  no  doubt  of  faded  Fraus  von  Egmont, 
on  the  walls  !  And  the  atrabilious  drawing-room 
curtains  !  And  the  visits  from  the  Frau  Pastor  ! 
And  Ange  !  And  Jeanne  !  " 


198  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  And  in  another  day  or  two,  the  society  of 
Count  Paul  von  Egmont,  himself  ? "  suggests 
Wolfgang,  with  emphasis.  "  Do  not  omit  the 
part  of  Hamlet  from  the  play." 

Miss  Yivash  hesitates ;  she  trifles,  coyly  irre- 
solute, with  the  bracelet  on  her  wrist.  In  the 
hand  of  an  expert  coquette,  silence  is  to  speech 
what  shadow  is  to  light.  She  who  understands  it 
not  is  ignorant  of  the  very  chiaroscuro  of  her 
craft.  Can  a  confession  from  the  loveliest  pair 
of  lips  extant  rival  in  sweetness  the  avowal  that 
silence  masks,  and  that  the  vanity  of  man's  nature 
can  construe  as  he  wills  ? 

"  I  think,"  so  at  last  she  speaks,  in  fluttering 
accents,  and  not  trusting  her  eyes  to  meet  Wolf- 
gang's, "  that  for  once,  for  this  night  only,  as  the 
acting  people  say,  it  would  refresh  one  to  specu- 
late, like  Maud  Mtiller,  on  the  pleasant  might- 
have-beens  of  life  !  London  and  all  the  people 
belonging  to  it,  Schloss  Egmont  and  all  the  peo- 
ple belonging  to  it,  do  not,  to  my  mind,  come 
under  the  name  of  pleasant." 

"  The  happiest  hours  I  have  known  have  been 
spent  within  the  four  hideous  walls,  in  the  pov- 
erty-stricken gardens  that  surround  Schloss  Eg- 
mont," retorts  the  master. 

His  voice  reflects  loyally  the  flood  of  strong 
feeling  at  his  heart.  Poor  victim !  Surely  the 
end  can  not  be  far  off,  now.  A  man  exchanging 
warm  sentiments  with  Beauty,  at  such  an  hour, 


THOSE  HORRIBLE  PHOTOGRAPHERS!        199 

in  Beauty's  present  plastic  mood,  must  have  ad- 
vanced tolerably  far  along  the  road  to  execution  ! 

"The  happiest  hours  you  have  known  have 
been  spent  at  Schloss  Egmont  ?  "  she  repeats,  with 
an  air  of  bewitching  consciousness.  "  Surely  you 
do  not  reckon  any  of  the  hours  you  have  spent 
there,  lately  f  " 

"Quite  lately,  Miss  Vivash.  Now,  in  fact, 
during  this  present  month  of  July." 

"  And  alone,  of  course  ;  alone,  with  your  own 
thoughts,  or  with  those  wild  books  of  German 
poetry,  that  must  so  delightfully  take  you  out  of 
this  dull  prosaic  world  !  Schiller  and  Heine," 
(one  feels  unwillingly  convinced  that  Beauty's 
sculptured  lips  say  Heiner),  "and  the  rest !  Oh, 
Mr.  Wolfgang,"  impulsively,  "  those  are  just  the 
higher  interests  that  I  need  !  Pursuits,  studies, 
some  one  of  superior  mind  to  guide  me,  to  save 
me  from  myself  !  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  I 
dare  speak  in  this  open  way,  but  you  seem  so  like 
an  old  and  valued  friend  that  I  take  courage. 
Tell  me,  you  don't  quite  disbelieve  in  me — you 
think  there  may  be  better  capabilities  in  me  than 
anything  my  artificial  life  of  frivolity  has  called 
forth?" 

And  as  though  swayed  irresistibly  by  some 
current  of  strong  feeling,  she  rests  a  white  hand, 
for  a  couple  of  seconds  or  more,  on  Wolfgang's 
arm. 

As  a  bit  of  acting,  the  impulse  is  excellent. 


200  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Jeanne  has  not  been  over  much  affected  by  the 
stock  sentiment,  the  carefully  learned  glances  and 
attitudes  of  the  love-struck  Duchess  of  Carrara. 
At  this  moment,  words,  gestures,  alike  struck 
off  at  white  heat,  she  feels  that  her  rival  is  an 
artist. 

Is  Wolfgang  acting  a  part  too  ? — a  more  seri- 
ous one  than  Vivian's,  but  still  a  part,  in  which 
vanity  rather  than  passion  holds  the  master- 
place  ? 

Alas  !  Such  details  matter  not  to  Jeanne. 
She  is  nothing  to  him.  And  this  picturesque 
situation,  this  sample  of  a  reigning  Beauty's 
everyday  sensations,  is  the  turning-point  in  her 
fate  ;  just  that !  Standing  here,  metaphorically 
and  literally,  in  the  cold,  a  miserable,  unwilling 
listener,  Jeanne  feels  that  all  the  best  half  of  her- 
self, her  girlhood,  light-heartedness,  hope,  have 
died  a  sudden,  violent  death  ;  that  from  this  hour 
forth  she  will  be  about  on  a  level,  as  regards  en- 
joyment of  life,  with  Ange — or  lower,  perhaps, 
by  reason  of  the  interminable  vista  of  days  that 
stretch  out  gray  and  changeless  before  her  ! 

The  principal  actors — in  this  farce,  or  tragedy 
- — which  ? — move,  ere  long,  away  ;  and  advanc- 
ing a  pace  or  two  from  the  wet  shrubs,  out  of  the 
pouring  rain,  Jeanne  resolves  stoutly  to  hold  her 
pain  in  check,  to  confront  whatever  immediate 
ordeal  lies  before  her.  But  even  this  respite  is 
brief.  Before  five  minutes  are  over,  Miss  Vivash 


LOST  LENORE.  201 

and  her  companion  return  once  more  to  their 
former  position,  and  once  more  Jeanne  is  forced 
to  listen. 

That  a  climax  of  some  kind  has  been  reached 
during  these  five  minutes,  it  needs  but  a  glance  at 
the  two  faces  to  discern. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LOST  LENORE. 

THE  master  is  moved  beyond  his  wont  ;  ice- 
cold  are  the  looks  of  Beauty.  Her  lips  have  lost 
their  smiles,  her  brow  wears  the  peculiar  heaviness 
which  at  times  prophesies  what  the  goddess's  face 
will  be  when  the  bloom  of  youth,  the  glow  of  con- 
scious power,  no  longer  lighten  it. 

"In  spite  of  all  your  discouragement,  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  continue  to  hope,"  Wolfgang  re- 
marks, after  a  pause,  and  with  a  certain  dogged- 
ness  of  tone. 

"SBer  aunt  erjlen  2Me  Uefct, 

audj  glittff  o$,  tft  em  ©ott  ; 
tter  jum  jtteitett  2Me, 

2)er  i|l  etn  Sftarr. 


"  Or  to  put  it  in  English  doggerel, 

"  The  man  by  love  betrayed 
A  god  may  be  ; 
Betray  him  a  second  time, 
A  fool  is  he  ! 


202  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  I  am  at  an  age,  Miss  Vivash,  when  a  man 
does  not  willingly  admit  to  himself  that  he  has 
been  made  a  fool." 

Vivian  shrugs  her  shoulders  carelessly.  The 
quotation  may  be  lost  upon  her.  She  can  scarce 
be  so  poor  a  physiognomist  as  to  misjudge  the  ex- 
pression of  the  master's  face. 

"  Hope  is  a  cheap  amusement,  Mr.  Wolfgang." 
The  remark,  still  more  the  tone  in  which  it  is 
made,  savor  of  acrimony.  "  Unfortunately,  there 
is  too  little  of  Micawber  in  my  temperament  for 
me  to  indulge  in  it.  I  see  events  and  men  (women 
also)  as  they  are,  and  never  expect  anything  to 
( turn  up '  in  life,  but  the  disagreeable." 

"  And  you  extend  these  pessimist  doctrines  to 
other  people  ?  You  positively  refuse  to  see  any 
future  good  in  store  for  me?  Remember,  Miss 
Vivash,  that,  although  all  this  may  seem  a  farce 
to  you,  to  me  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

She  laughs  ;  the  little  laugh  of  affected  scorn 
Jeanne  knows  so  well. 

"  Life  and  death  dependent  upon  a  girl's  ca- 
price !  A  girl  with  no  other  dowry — " 

"Than  youth,  grace,  sweetness,"  Wolfgang  in- 
terrupts her.  "You  should  look  upon  me  with 
pity  rather  than  contempt,  Miss  Yivash.  If,  as 
you  make  me  suspect,  I  am  a  fool,  I  shall  have  to 
pay  dearly  for  my  folly,  depend  upon  it — change, 
I  shall  not." 

"  You  have  my  most  sincere  pity,  my  friend," 


LOST  LENORE.  203 

answers  Vivian,  "  as  regards  your  past,  your  pres- 
ent, and  your  future — above  all  your  future.  Save 
us  from  our  answered  prayers  !  as  some  one  or 
another  wisely  said." 

"  You  do  not  hold  to  any  old-fashioned  doc- 
trines about  wedded  happiness  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  In  the  cooing  of  turtle-doves,  the  sweetness 
of  barley-sugar  temples  ?  Well,  yes.  I  dare 
say  such  things  are  pleasant  enough — while  they 
last  !  " 

"  And  the  love  that  comes  when  the  cooing  of 
turtle-doves,  when  barley-sugar  temples,  are  things 
of  the  past?" 

A  gesture  of  Vivian's  white  hand  expresses  as 
much  condensed  cynicism  as  would  spread  over  a 
dozen  pages,  printed  small,  of  La  Rochefoucault. 

"  I  am  not  a  sentimentalist,  Mr.  Wolfgang, 
once  and  for  all.  I  am  seasoned  wood;  I  look  at 
the  world  without  blinkers.  Every  penniless  love- 
match  I  ever  took  the  trouble  to  watch,  I  have 
seen  end  in  grief — naturally.  How  can  it  be  oth- 
erwise ?  When  people  are  married,  each  year 
they  live  brings  heavier  inevitable  expenses  on 
their  shoulders.  A  woman's  dress  is  costly  in  ex- 
act proportion  to  her  age.  (I  went  about  in  one 
gown,"  muses  poor  Beauty,  "  straight  through 
the  best  balls  of  my  first  season.  And  all  the  fine 
ladies  copied  me  !  I  know  a  great  deal  too  much 
of  human  nature  to  go  about  in  one  gown  now.) 
Then,  unless  the  wife  is  a  regular  failure,  she  will 


204  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

look  forward  constantly  to  being  more  invited 
out,  to  entertaining  more,  to  having  better  equip- 
ages, richer  jewels.  Love  !  unless  the  husband 
has  an  ample  balance  at  his  banker's,  how  can  love 
exist,  I  should  like  to  know,  amid  the  wear  and 
tear  of  daily  anxieties  like  these  ?  " 

"  Are  you  administering  a  wholesome  bitter — 
speaking  in  parable — for  my  good  ?  "  says  Wolf- 
gang. "  Or  do  you,  in  earnest,  believe  that  human 
life  contains  nothing  of  higher  worth,  of  keener 
delight,  than  equipages,  jewels,  and  invitation 
cards?" 

"I  believe,"  says  Vivian,  with  an  unstifled 
yawn,  "that,  unless  one  wants  to  be  rheumatic 
for  the  rest  of  one's  mortal  days,  it  would  be  well 
to  go  back  to  the  ballroom.  What  a  climate  !  " 
Peeping  forth,  with  a  shudder,  at  the  grand  dark 
heavens,  through  whose  dome,  at  one  solitary 
point,  a  star  already  shines.  "  If  this  is  a  normal 
German  July,  what  must  December  be  like  —  a 
succession  of  Decembers,  enlivened  by  six-and- 
sixty,  Frau  Pastors,  and  the  eternal  stocking  ? 
And  to  think  there  are  thousands — for  aught  I 
know,  millions — of  sentient  beings  condemned  to 
drone  out  their  days,  even  by  courtesy  one  can 
not  say  to  live,  in  the  Fatherland  !  " 

She  turn  brusquely  away,  the  master  in  dutiful 
attendance ;  and  stiff,  cramped,  drenched  to  the 
skin,  Jeanne  Dempster  crawls  forth  out  of  her 
place  of  concealment,  and  watches  their  departure. 


LOST   LENORE.  205 

That  Wolfgang  has  declared  his  love,  and  been 
rejected,  she  accepts  as  a  certainty,  although  the 
actual  words  of  his  declaration  were  unheard  by 
her.  That,  in  spite  of  Vivian's  cold  worldliness, 
he  will  continue  faithful  to  his  folly,  she  can  not, 
dare  not  doubt.  "Although  to  you  this  may 
seein  a  farce,  to  me  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
Although  I  may  be  a  fool,  although  I  may  have 
to  pay  dearly  for  my  folly — change  I  shall  not." 
Do  not  his  own  confessions  shut  out  the  possibility 
of  disbelief  ? 

Well,  and  let  him  be  true  or  false,  a  fool  or 
wise,  Jeanne  Dempster  must  live  on,  must  brave 
a  hundred  human  faces,  now,  in  yonder  lighted 
noisy  Kursaal,  and  make  no  sign  that  the  heart 
within  her  breast  is  dead  ! 

She  will  not  give  herself  time  for  cowardice. 
She  stops  not  to  consider  what  sensation  her  wet 
clothes,  her  tear-stained  cheeks  are  likely  to  create 
among  the  pink-and-white  beauties  of  the  ball- 
room— nay,  it  seems  to  her  that  she  derives  a  cer- 
tain forlorn  satisfaction  from  the  sense  of  her  own 
uncomeliness.  Approaching  nearer  the  light,  she 
sees  that  the  clock  above  the  entrance  of  the 
Kursaal  points  to  three  quarters  past  ten.  In 
another  fifteen  minutes  the  ball  will  be  over  ;  let 
her  sick  heart  in  this,  at  least,  find  a  shade  of 
comfort.  The  fiddlers,  even  now,  are  tightening 
their  strings  preparatory  to  the  final  dance.  What 
are  her  chances  of  a  partner?  she  asks  herself, 


206  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

ingeniously  self-torturing,  after  the  manner  of 
the  miserable.  Wolfgang,  Sir  Christopher,  thin- 
waisted,  supercilious  Baden  officers — which  among 
them  all  will  come  forward  as  the  squire  of  the 
forlorn  and  draggled  Cinderella,  who  is  about  to 
put  in  an  appearance  upon  the  scene  ? 

She  walks  boldly  past  the  range  of  windows, 
makes  her  way  in  (readily  enough,  when  people 
discover  the  dripping  condition  of  her  raiment), 
through  the  crowded  vestibule,  and  enters  the 
ballroom.  The  first  figure  her  eyes  light  upon  is 
Miss  Yivash.  The  beauty  is  talking  with  an  air 
of  confidence  to  Lady  Pamela  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  saal.  Wolfgang,  looking  pale  and  disturbed, 
stands  apart,  speaking  to  no  one,  near  the  door. 

He  sees  his  pupil  in  an  instant,  and  crosses  over 
to  her  side. 

"Miss  Dempster,  my  little  Jeanne,  this  is  a 
relief,  indeed  !  But  you  are  cold  "  ;  whether  the 
girl  repulse  him  or  not,  he  rests  his  hand  on  hers. 
"You  must  be  drenched  to  the  skin  in  that  light 
frock  of  yours.  What,  in  Gottes  namen,  have 
you  been  doing,  child  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  taking  a  lesson,"  answers  Jeanne, 
with  a  mighty  effort,  keeping  her  voice  from  quiv- 
ering. "  There  are  a  few  things  to  learn  in  the 
world,  you  know,  sir,  besides  Euclid  and  Latin 
verbs." 

Wolfgang  looks  at  her  with  unsmiling  lips, 
with  grave,  mistrustful  eyes. 


LOST  LENORE.  207 

"  A  singular  kind  of  lesson  that  has  kept  you 
out  in  such  weather,  at  such  an  hour  of  the  night 
as  this,  and  alone  !  " 

"  And  suppose  I  was  not  alone  ?  "  she  answers 
curtly.  "  Suppose,  until  half  an  hour  ago,  that 
Sir  Christopher  Marlowe  was  good  enough  to  be 
my  companion  ?  " 

"  Sir  Christopher  !  "  repeats  Wolfgang,  glanc- 
ing across  the  room  at  the  Bond  Street  perfec- 
tions of  the  little  London  dandy  ;  "  why,  Sir 
Christopher  Marlowe  would  melt  away  bodily  in 
one  of  our  Black  Forest  thunder  showers." 

"  When  one  is  in  pleasant  society,  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang, the  accidents  of  wind  and  rain  may  be  for- 
gotten, as  you,  surely,  ought  to  know." 

Jeanne  believes  herself  to  speak  with  a  toler- 
ably successful  show  of  flippancy.  Something  at 
any  rate,  in  her  tone  or  in  her  mention  of  Sir 
Christopher,  produces  an  effect  on  Wolfgang. 

"  If  Sir  Christopher  is  ready  to  bear  the  blame, 
I,  of  course,  may  be  silent,"  he  remarks,  somewhat 
coldly.  "  Otherwise,  as  I  shall  have  to  answer  to 
Mademoiselle  Ange  to-morrow  for  your  illness — " 

"  Oh,  my  illness  ! "  exclaims  Jeanne,  turning 
aside  from  him  impatiently.  "Do  I  look,  the 
very  least  in  the  world,  like  a  person  who  is  going 
to  be  ill?" 

"  You  do  not,"  is  Wolfgang's  reply  ;  "  you 
look  like  a  person  who  is  ill  already.  Your  poor 
little  pinched  face  is  white  as  death,  with  a  crim- 


208  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

son  spot  on  either  cheek ;  your  eyes  are  glassy, 
your  lips  blue." 

"  What  a  seductive  picture  !  "  cries  Jeanne, 
this  time  with  a  laugh  'twould  go  to  your  heart  to 
hear.  "  Who  will  offer  himself  as  my  partner,  I 
wonder,  for  the  next  dance  ?  for  I  hope  I  shall 
dance  it !  I  hope  a  day  of  such  wild  pleasure  as 
this  has  been  will  wind  up  bravely  !  " 

"  I  believe  I  am,  or  was,  engaged,  after  a  fash- 
ion," Wolfgang  remarks,  after  glancing  at  a  pro- 
gramme that  hangs  suspended  from  his  button- 
hole. "  But,  if  you  will  accept  me,  Miss  Demp- 
ster, I  am  ready  to  forswear  myself.  You  and 
I  have  never  danced  together,  have  we  ?  " 

"  No,  we  have  had  the  good  fortune  hitherto 
to  find  other  partners,"  Jeanne  answers  bitterly. 
"  It  would  be  rather  late  in  the  day  to  mend  now. 
Besides,  sir,  why  should  my  conscience  be  made 
to  bear  the  guilt  of  your  perjuries  ?  " 

A  glow  of  tell-tale  indignation  suffuses  her 
face,  her  lips  tremble.  As  Wolfgang  watches  her 
steadily,  the  dawning  of  some  new,  not  unwel- 
come truth  seems  to  break  upon  him. 

"  If  I  am  ready  to  bear  the  guilt,  myself,"  he 
whispers,  "  will  you  dance  with  me  ?  It  is  never 
too  late  in  the  day  to  return  to  one's  first — " 

The  sentence,  unhappily  for  Jeanne's  peace, 
remains  a  fragment.  At  this  instant  a  suppliant 
for  her  hand,  a  victim  to  her  drenched  and  mer- 
maid charms,  crosses  the  room,  and  with  figure 


LOST  LENORE..  209 

bent  at  an  acute  right  angle,  with  hands  stiffly 
glued  down  to  his  sides,  stands,  after  the  manner 
of  academy-taught  cavaliers,  before  her. 

"  Kann  ich  die  Ehre  haben  " — so  in  a  sepul- 
chral voice  he  addresses  her — "  Kann  ich  die  Ehre 
haben,  Gnadiges  Fraulein  ?  " 

The  new  comer  is  an  immensely  tall,  conspicu- 
ously ugly  university  student,  distantly  known, 
by  reason  of  his  kinship  with  the  Katzenellen- 
bogen  family,  to  Jeanne  and  Ange  ;  a  Herr  Graf 
possessing  Tittel  ohne  Mittel,  like  most  of  the 
Schwarzwald  nobles,  and  of  lineage  too  high,  of 
prejudices  too  stiff,  to  seek  partners  among  the 
rosy-cheeked  bourgeois  daughters  of  Freiburg  or 
Muhlheim.  Three  or  four  tolerably  recent  duel 
slashes  traverse  his  cadaverous  face  ;  his  flaxen 
hair — long  and  parted  down  the  center  of  his 
head,  like  the  hair  of  Ary  Scheffer's  heroes — is 
drawn  tightly  behind  his  ears.  He  affects  black 
gloves,  too  long  in  the  fingers  ;  shows  an  untold 
length  of  throat ;  wears  Lord  Byron  collars,  a 
white  cravat,  a  cutaway  riding  coat,  and  spurs  ! 

And  Jeanne  turns  shortly  aside  from  Wolf- 
gang. With  her  passion-strung  heart  just  pre- 
pared to  overflow  and  relent,  she  smiles  upon  this 
saber-slashed  apparition,  as  though  he  were  a  crea- 
ture of  light,  rests  her  head  with  a  little  willing 
gesture  on  his  arm,  and  resigns  herself  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  evening  to  his  guidance  ! 

Lenore's  Death  Galop  is  the  music  chosen  for 
14 


210  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

the  final  dance  :  wildest,  eeriest  strains  that  ever 
entered  into  the  heart  of  German  composer  to 
weave.  The  student  glides  an  arm  around  Jean- 
ne's wet  waist,  he  shakes  back  his  lint-  white  tocks, 
holds  his  head  aloft,  extends  his  left  hand  hori- 
zontally in  space,  and  in  another  moment  they  are 
off.  One  glimpse  the  girl  catches  of  her  master's 
grave  face  as  he  watches  them  depart  ;  one  glimpse 
she  has  of  Vivian,  looking  on  at  the  little  scene 
with  chill  composure,  with  half  -closed,  indifferent 
eyes  ;  and  then  until  the  galop  is  finished,  during 
the  space  of  a  dozen  or  more  mad  minutes,  she 
sees  no  more. 

The  Bohemian  bandsmen  play  quick,  even  ac- 
cording to  their  national  ideas  of  dancing  speed. 
The  strides  of  the  specter  student  outstrip  their 
strains.  Once  only  in  Jeanne  Dempster's  life  be- 
fore has  she  experienced  such  velocity  —  once,  at 
the  age  of  seven,  when  her  nurse  allowed  her  the 
supreme  bliss  of  a  whirl  in  a  merry-go-round  at 
Freiburg  Fair.  No  matter  that  her  limbs  feel 
heavy,  that  her  breath  comes  thick.  Fast,  faster, 
in  her  wet  clothes,  with  jealous  despair,  cold  and 
sick  at  her  heart,  she  is  borne. 

"  ttnb  mwter  setter,  tyop,  fjop,  $ty  ! 
fort,  in  faufenben 


The  music  is  of  the  order  styled  descriptive. 
To  Jeanne's  overwrought  vision  it  seems  that  she 
is  actually  following  the  death  ride  of  Lost  Le- 


LOST  LENORE.  211 

nore.  The  Rapp  Rapp  of  the  ghostly  cock-crow- 
ing, the  hurras  of  fleshless  Wilhelm,  the  Hu  Hu 
of  the  pursuing  skeletons  —  she  hears  them  all  ; 
now  shiveringly  low,  now  wildly  shrieked  forth 
by  the  topmost  notes  of  clarionets  and  horns. 

Not  once  does  the  long-limbed  student  pause 
for  breath  ! 

Quick  ride  the  dead  ;  he  follows  their  exam- 
ple. The  plumed  and  ribboned  haus-mutters  who 
line  the  ballroom  walls  turn  into  charnel  crowds 
before  Jeanne's  excited  imagination.  She  feels 
faint  !  She  glances  up  in  vain  appeal  to  her  part- 
ner ! 

He  carries  no  scythe  and  hour-glass  ;  the  flesh 
as  yet  has  not  fallen  from  his  bones,  as  it  fell  from 
Wilhelm's,  but  his  cadaverous  complexion  waxes 
paler  and  paler  as  they  fly  ;  the  saber  wounds 
show  ghastlier. 

"  ttnb  tmmer  toetter,  Ijop,  $oj>,  tyofc  ! 
fort,  in  faufenben 


Sick  and  reeling,  Jeanne  is  kept  on  her  legs  to 
the  last  :  when  the  final  crash  of  fiddles  has  spent 
itself,  is  dropped,  not  like  hapless  Lenore  into  a 
living  grave,  but  among  a  feather-bed  group  of 
dowagers  on  an  ottoman,  and  there  left  to  come 
back  to  consciousness  as  she  may. 

Through  all  the  future  nightmare  of  her  life, 
whenever  her  brain  shall  be  in  a  condition  to 
shape  sinister  memories  into  evil  dreams,  that 


212  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Lenore  galop,  played*  by  the  Badenweiler  band, 
danced  with  her  specter  student  partner,  must,  of 
a  surety,  come  to  the  fore. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

EFFACED. 

To  the  mind  of  any  legitimate  heroine  the  pro- 
priety of  falling  ill  must,  at  this  point  of  Jeanne 
Dempster's  career,  present  itself.  A  recreant  lover, 
a  successful  rival,  a  thunderstorm  and  a  wetting, 
are  circumstances  to  which,  about  the  end  of  the 
second  volume,  no  heroine  with  a  decent  sense  of 
the  responsibilities  of  her  position  could  fail  to 
succumb.  Will  not  the  process  of  sickening  fill  a 
hundred  pages,  her  convalescence  another  hun- 
dred, her  last  hours,  or  the  lover's  reconciliation 
— according  to  whether  the  romantic  taste  of  the 
hour  inclines  toward  good  or  "  bad  endings  " — a 
third ! 

Jeanne  is  emphatically  not  a  heroine  ;  no,  not 
even  the  heroine  proper  of  this  little  history  ;  and 
the  sequel  to  her  Badenweiler  adventures  is  com- 
monplace, exceedingly.  She  awakes  next  morn- 
ing sound  as  a  bell,  in  health,  not  an  ache  in  head 
or  limb,  not  an  accelerated  beat  of  the  pulse,  but 
with  her  voice  gone. 

Elspeth,  coming  into  the  girl's  chamber,  accord- 


EFFACED.  213 

ing  to  custom,  soon  after  sunrise,  is  accosted  with 
a  "  Gut  en  Morgen  "  hoarse  as  the  utterance  of  a 
strangled  raven,  and  summons  Mamselle  Ange,  in 
haste,  upon  the  scene.  An  inspection  of  Jeanne's 
frock  and  shoes  reveals  the  state  in  which  she  re- 
turned home  last  night  from  her  day's  merry-mak- 
ing, and  the  sentence  pronounced  upon  her  is 
brief.  She  shall  remain  in  her  bed,  drink  haf er- 
schleim,  and  take  aconite  globules  until  her  voice 
returns  ;  yes,  although  twenty  private  theatricals, 
although  the  home-coming  of  twenty  Counts  von 
Egmont,  were  imminent. 

Nearly  all  pulmonary  disorders,  says  Ange 
oracularly,  as  though  she  were  on  the  rostrum  of 
a  lecture-room,  begin  in  the  throat.  If  Jeanne's 
throat  be  not  affected,  her  hoarseness  must  arise 
from  the  bronchia  (second  only  to  her  proficiency 
in  matters  doctrinal  does  Ange  rate  her  own 
knowledge  of  the  human  frame)  ;  if  not  from  the 
bronchia,  worse  still,  from  the  lungs.  In  any  case 
she  shall  remain  prisoner,  if  refractory,  be  visited 
by  the  Herr  Doctor  Gregorius,  from  Freiburg, 
and  as  the  Herr  Doctor's  first  order  would  be  to 
shut  every  window  in  the  house,  his  second  to  pile 
the  patient  high  in  feather-bed  counterpanes,  and 
the  third  to  make  her  swallow  gallons  of  Linden- 
bluthen  Thee,  Jeanne  obeys  :  not,  perhaps,  with- 
out a  lurking  curiosity  as  to  the  emotions  that 
shall  be  awakened  in  the  different  members  of  the 
Egmont  Incapables  by  her  absence. 


214  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"It  is  nothing  catching — you  give  me  your 
assurance  that  it  is  going  to  be  nothing  catch- 
ing?" So,  toward  midday,  she  hears  Vivian 
holding  parley  with  Ange  outside  the  door.  "  Of 
course,  if  one  had  even  a  suspicion  of  fever,  or 
diphtheria,  or  anything  of  the  kind,  it  would  be 
right  to  have  the  girl  removed  out  of  the  house  at 
once.  Nothing  in  the  world  I  have  such  a  horror 
of  as  contagion.  Now,  I  do  rely  on  you,  I  may 
venture  in  with  safety  ?  " 

And,  holding  a  handkerchief  saturated  with 
essences  to  her  nose,  the  Beauty  enters  the  room, 
seats  herself  gingerly  at  about  a  foot  distant  from 
the  door,  and  desires  that  both  the  windows  may 
be  set  open  in  order  to  ensure  a  draught  above 
the  patient's  head. 

If  little  Jeanne  were  suffering  from  plague, 
pestilence,  and  famine  combined,  Miss  Yivash 
could  not  show  more  prompt  and  tender  solicitude 
— for  her  own  safety  ! 

"  I  hear,  through  Evans,  you  have  lost  your 
voice,  Jeanne,  and  really  you  might  have  had  a 
little  more  consideration,  as  I  had  agreed  to  your 
attempting  a  leading  part  !  A  radical  change  of 
characters  will  be  the  only  measure  open  to  us. 
Now,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  can  not  speak 
at  all?" 

Faintly  Jeanne  tries  to  answer  that  she  sup- 
poses, if  she  take  very  good  care  of  herself,  that 
she  may  get  her  voice  back  by  to-morrow,  grow- 


EFFACED.  215 

ing  exceedingly  hot  and  red  as  she  makes  the 
effort. 

Vivian  recedes  hastily  in  the  direction  of  the 
door. 

"  To  me  you  appear  feverish,  disagreeably 
feverish  ;  the  same  kind  of  red  swollen  look  round 
the  eyes  that  you  had  last  night  when  you  were 
dancing  !  I  do  hope  I  am  running  no  risk  in 
coming  here,  the  medical  men  all  declare  that  I 
have  such  an  exquisitely  sympathetic  organiza- 
tion ;  '  sensitive  as  iodine  to  light,'  the  great  Sir 
Leo  Smith  has  been  known  to  say  of  me  !  Are 
you  sure  you  have  had  the  common  childish  com- 
plaints, measles,  nettle-rash,  whooping-cough  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  had  small-pox,"  gasps  Jeanne 
hoarsely  ;  and  yet  with  sufficient  malicious  dis- 
tinctness to  make  the  color  fade  from  Beauty's 
cheek. 

"  Small-pox  !  Horrors  !  "  she  ejaculates,  gath- 
ering her  skirts  around  her  with  a  gesture  of 
affright. 

"  Small-pox  !  Fiddlesticks  ! "  cries  Ange,  cross- 
ing over  to  the  girl's  pillow.  "  Jeanne  was  vac- 
cinated when  she  first  came  under  my  care,  as  a 
baby,  and  again  at  fourteen.  Not  that  revac- 
cination  is  much  of  a  protection  from  the  disease. 
I  recollect  a  laundry-maid  of  my  dear  mother's 
dying  of  it,  who  had  been  vaccinated  regularly 
(or  who  said  she  had,  for  sad  things  were  found 
out  afterward  as  to  her  character,  and  we  knew 


216  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

her  to  be  unreliable  about  the  starch)  every  seven 
years.  If  you  are  frightened  of  these  things,  Miss 
Vivash,  you  go  the  straightest  road  toward  catch- 
ing them.  Every  one  remembers  about  the  pris- 
oners and  the  cholera  beds,  though  _Z"call  it  mur- 
der !  Cause  of  science  or  no,  such  an  experiment 
should  never  have  been  made  in  a  Christian  coun- 
try ;  and  as  to  Jeanne's  illness,  why,  her  tempera- 
ture is  normal  ;  feel  her  hand,  if  you  want  to  con- 
vince yourself  how  much  fever  the  child  has  about 
her." 

Miss  Yivash  does  not  avail  herself  of  this  offer. 
She  continues  on  the  extreme  edge  of  her  chair, 
ready  if  need  be  for  instant  flight.  She  watches 
the  patient's  face  in  silence.  Something  in  Jeanne's 
expression  would  seem,  after  a  time,  to  reassure 
her. 

"  Of  course,  we  shall  have  to  arrive  at  a  de- 
cision one  way  or  the  other,"  she  observes  with 
meaning.  "  That  is  what  I  came  here  to  tell  you. 
The  theatricals  are  fixed  for  Saturday,  .to-morrow. 
Will  you  be  well  enough  to  take  your  part,  or 
will  you  not  ?  " 

Jeanne  whispers  to  Ange,  who  repeats  aloud, 
for  Vivian's  benefit,  that  she  hopes  to  take  her 
part  if  she  gets  her  voice  back  sufficiently. 

"  Oh,  but  '  if  s '  and  *  hopes '  don't  do  in  emer- 
gencies of  this  kind,"  interrupts  Yivian  coolly. 
"  You  must  decide  positively,  and  at  once,  whether 
you  will  have  voice  enough  to  act  or  not.  Mr. 


EFFACED.  217 

Wolfgang  comes  over  to  a  dress  rehearsal  this 
evening."  Jeanne  feels  the  pale  eyes  rest  on  her 
with  cruel  significance  at  mention  of  the  master's 
name.  "  If  Laura  does  not  choose  to  put  in  an 
appearance,  I  as  stage  manager  must  decide  what 
shall  be  done  in  Laura's  absence." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  generous — I  think  you 
might  fairly  give  me  four-and-twenty  hours' 
grace,"  utters  Jeanne,  with  an  effort.  Ange,  just 
at  this  moment,  has  been  called  out  of  the  room 
by  Elspeth  on  kitchen  business,  leaving  the  poor 
child  to  confront  her  enemy  alone.  "  I  got  hoarse 
last  winter,  I  remember,  after  the  New  Year's 
Philharmonic  Concert,  and  it  went  off  after 
twenty -four  hours,  and — " 

"  And  if  <  it '  does  not  go  off  ?  If  <  it '  turns, 
as  I  more  than  suspect  will  be  the  case,  to  some- 
thing horrible  and  dangerous,  what  then  ?  Do  you 
suppose  that  a  substitute  can  be  found,  programmes 
changed,  dresses  made  up,  at  the  last  moment  ? 
Remember  the  hundred  and  fifty  guests,  and  the 
twenty  pairs  of  chickens,"  says  Vivian  playfully  ; 
"  remember  the  salmon  from  Geneva,  and  the  pies 
from  Strasburg,  and  the  thunder  in  the  air  !  With 
all  the  dramatic  ability  in  the  world  you  can  not 
act  two  parts  at  once,  my  dear,  the  interesting 
invalid  and  the  Maid  of  Honor,  as  well.  It  is  for 
you  to  decide  which  you  prefer  ! " 

"  I  am  not  an  invalid,"  gasps  Jeanne,  growing 
hoarser  and  hoarser  ;  "  I  am  not  interesting,  to  my- 


218  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

self  or  anybody  else,  and  I  do  not  mean  to  break 
up  the  theatricals,  I  mean  to  get  back  my  voice, 
and  act,  and — " 

"Well,  as  far  as  breaking  up  the  theatricals 
goes,"  interrupts  Beauty — "  you  don't  mind  my 
speaking  quite  plainly  ?  I  thought  not — as  far  as 
breaking  up  the  theatricals  goes,  nothing  would 
conduce  more  to  our  success  than  for  Lady  Pa- 
mela, as  I  said  from  the  first,  to  take  the  Maid  of 
Honor.  Your  dress  could  be  made  to  fit  her — I 
presume  you  meant  to  wear  the  costume  you  put 
on  one  night  for  our  edification  ?  and  Sir  Christo- 
pher would  take  the  part  of  Laura,  alias  the 
Count  Cesario." 

"Sir  Christopher  would  take  the  part  of 
Laura  ! "  repeats  little  Jeanne,  raising  herself  up 
on  her  elbows  in  her  amazement. 

"  Yes.  Capital  proposal,  is  it  not  ?  Sir  Chris- 
topher is  quite  too  irresistible  dressed  as  a  girl — 
female  characters  are  his  forte.  He  would  bring 
the  house  down  with  every  word,  and  mock  flir- 
tation between  him  and  Lady  Pamela,  when  Laura 
has  disguised  herself  in  male  attire,  would  have 
a  piquancy.  I  more  than  half  regret,  positively, 
that  I  did  not  keep  Giulia  for  myself.  This 
would  only  leave  the  part  of  the  Grand  Chamber- 
lain vacant.  Very  likely  Mr. — Mr. — what  is  the 
Freiburg  teaching  man's  name  ? — Wolf  gang  might 
find  some  one  among  his  pupils  to  take  it  ?  " 

At  this  mention  of  Wolfgang,  at  the  inten- 


EFFACED.  219 

tionally  impertinent  hesitation  with  which  his 
name  is  drawled  forth,  Jeanne's  cheeks  flame. 
She  starts  up  in  her  bed,  she  looks  at  Miss  Vivash 
fixedly. 

"  It  is  a  thousand  pities  for  himself  that  the 
Freiburg  teaching  man  ever  had  anything  to  do 
with  us  or  our  theatricals  ! "  so  she  breaks  forth, 
indignation,  for  the  moment,  lending  her  voice  a 
certain  husky  strength. 

"  Oh,  come,  come,  this  will  never  do  ;  you  are 
working  yourself  into  a  fever,"  interrupts  Vivian, 
rising  languidly,  and  with  a  manner  implying  that 
the  argument  remains  with  her.  "  Drink  plenty 
of  water  gruel,  my  dear,  or  whatever  paraphrase 
of  water  gruel  exists  in  Teuton  land,  keep  your- 
self cool  and  collected,  and  be  quite  sure  we  will 
arrange  everything  for  the  best.  Remember  the 
adage  of  the  nursery  !  Master  Jacky  can  not  eat 
the  cake  and  have  it."  This  is  discharged  as  a 
parting  shot  ere  she  quits  the  room.  "You  would 
run  about  the  wet  gardens,  yesterday,  rehearsing 
ingenue  scenes  with  Sir  Christopher  (burning 
your  fingers,  as  your  master  sagely  forewarned 
you).  You  would  overdance  yourself  with  By- 
ronic  saber-scarred  German  nobles,  and  to-day 
comes  retribution.  So  are  our  pleasant  sins  ever 
paid  for.  Champagne  may  triumph  over  night. 
Repentance  and  soda  water  prevail  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

The  Beauty's  tone  betrays  more  undisguised 


220  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

active  rancor  than  usual  ;  at  which,  in  her  igno- 
rance, Jeanne  marvels.  Can  it  be  that  Vivian 
holds  her  last  night's  triumph  incomplete  ?  that 
Wolfgang,  although  vanquished,  did  not  yield 
the  full  measure  of  incense  which  her  slakeless 
thirst  for  conquest  craves  after  ?  Does  the  acri- 
mony of  tongue  betray  some  lurking  sense  of  fail- 
ure—  failure  whereof,  rightly  or  wrongly,  she 
holds  Jeanne's  insignificant  self  to  be  the  cause  ? 

Ample  leisure  has  Jeanne  Dempster  for  medi- 
tation ere  this  weary  July  day  be  done.  Sick 
and  impatient  at  heart,  she  watches  the  sun  creep 
inch  by  inch  along  her  chamber- wall ;  she  hears 
the  lagging  hours  strike  drowsily  on  St.  Ulrich's 
clock  ;  she  listens  to  the  trickling  of  the  trout- 
stream,  the  wail  of  the  wood-doves,  the  soughing 
of  the  forests.  Alas  !  and  for  the  first  time  since 
she  was  born,  sunshine  palls  upon  her  ;  the  sounds 
of  stream  and  forest  have  lost  their  tune.  For 
the  first  time  she  realizes  the  meaning  of  life,  as 
the  old,  the  sick,  the  sorry — the  whole  army  of 
martyrs,  in  countless  thousands — are  obliged  to 
know  and  to  bear  it  !  Is  this  one  day's  forced 
inaction  a  fitting  prelude  to  the  long  list  of  days 
to  come  ?  Does  this  sudden  distaste  of  sweet, 
familiar  joys  accurately  strike  the  key-note  of  the 
future  that  lies  before  her  ? 

She  will  not  become  as  Mamselle  Ange  is  ! 
The  blood  of  a  keener-strung  race,  the  moral  fiber 
of  a  more  restless  generation,  are  in  her.  She  will 


EFFACED.  221 

not  tone  down  to  a  cheerful,  garrulous  state  of 
vegetation  —  the  flavor  of  raspberry  vinegar,  or 
the  clearness  of  calves' -feet  jelly  for  a  high- water 
mark  of  duty  ;  a  game  of  six-and-sixty,  a  gossip 
"  behind  the  stove  "  with  the  Frau  Pastor  for 
pleasure. 

Neither  will  she  be  as  one  of  the  Frauleins 
Katzenellenbogen  !  Pinched  spinsters,  who,  af- 
ter sighing  through  a  sentimental  youth,  console 
themselves  as  they  go  down  the  gray  slopes  of 
middle  age  with  the  remembrance  of  their  father's 
sixteen  quarterings  of  nobility  ;  with  the  half- 
yearly  attendance  at  Residenz  levees  ;  with  tor- 
turing an  unhappy  white  slave,  their  dame  de 
compagnie ;  with  lapdogs,  Viennese  sugar-plums, 
provincial  scandal,  and  French  novels. 

As  she  has  sown,  or  rather,  as  the  iron  hand 
of  circumstances  has  sown  for  her,  so  shall  she 
reap.  Seventeen  years  of  a  child's  automatic 
contentment,  a  few  summer  weeks  of  awakening, 
a  little  reading  of  Heine's  verse,  a  few  brief,  pas- 
sionate hopes,  some  poignant  hours  or  days  of 
pain,  and  then — all  is  over  !  To  satisfy  a  co- 
quette's caprice,  happiness  torn  roughly  out  of 
her  grasp  ;  fifty  or  sixty  loveless  years — centu- 
ries to  the  hot,  onward-looking  spirit  of  youth — 
to  be  existed  through. 

Jeanne  exists  through  the  prelude,  through 
the  interminable  stretch  of  July  hours,  as  best 
she  can.  Evening  brings  her  a  faintly  brightening 


222  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

prospect  of  release.  -Her  hoarseness  abates  ;  her 
voice  begins  to  strengthen.  Not  Ange's  threats 
of  the  Herr  Gregorius,  not  Miss  Vivash,  not  fate 
itself,  shall  hinder  her  from  taking  her  part  in  the 
theatricals,  if  this  improvement  lasts.  Her  heart 
may  be  broken  ;  she  will  wear  her  brocaded  silk, 
her  Valencia  lace  above  the  fragments  ;  will  cover 
the  traces  of  tears  with  rouge  and  rice-powder, 
will  show  a  brave  front  before  Wolfgang,  before 
Vivian,  before  the  whole  world,  to  the  last. 

So  Jeanne  tells  herself  :  reckoning  without 
an  influence  more  potent  than  the  Herr  Doctor's 
prescription,  mightier  far  than  the  sneers  of 
Beauty,  or  than  the  irony  of  Fate  ! 

"Mr.  Wolfgang  thinks  that  we  have  recast 
the  piece  to  admiration,"  cries  Lady  Pamela, 
bursting  unceremoniously  into  the  girl's  room,  a 
little  after  sunset.  "We  have  been  running  it 
all  over  without  you,  Jeanne,  and  we  are  just 
going  to  light  the  foot-lights,  if  they  will  light, 
and  begin  the  dress  rehearsal,  now.  You  don't 
hear  our  voices,  I  hope  ?  That  is  right.  It  would 
be  such  a  sin  to  disturb  you.  My  dear  child,  I 
wish  you  could  see  us  !  Sir  Christopher  as  Laura, 
alias  Cesario,  is  inimitable.  I  give  up  my  Hes- 
sians to  him  without  a  sigh,  the  more  readily, 
perhaps,  when  I  remember  that  sweet  little  pou- 
dr'e  dress  of  yours  !  You  will  let  me  run  away 
with  it  now,  won't  you  ?  Too  short  in  the  skirts  ?  " 
(This,  as  poor  Jeanne  attempts  to  put  in  a  feeble 


EFFACED.  223 

protest.)  "  Oh,  ankles  will  not  matter  for  rehear- 
sal, and  Evans  can  add  a  flounce  to-morrow,  if 
strictly  necessary.  I  suppose  I  shall  find  it  all  in 
the  wardrobe,  yonder  ?  " 

And  ere  Jeanne  can  collect  herself  sufficiently 
for  resistance,  the  costume  of  the  village  Mar- 
chioness, carefully  laid  ready,  with  every  adjunct 
of  lace  and  furbelow  and  ribbon,  is  in  Lady  Pame- 
la's hands. 

"  Pink  and  azure !  Not  quite  the  colors  for 
an  ingenue  of  nine-and-twenty.  However,  I  must 
trust  to  bistre  for  my  downcast  eyelids,  and  to 
carmine  for  my  modesty.  It  seems  a  shame,  I 
must  say,  child  "  (testing  a  knot  of  ribbon  against 
her  complexion),  "  a  crying  shame  that  you  should 
have  none  of  the  fun.  But  one  must  think  of 
the  guests,  and  the  supper,  and  the  programmes. 
There  will  be  only  just  time,  if  we  send  to  Baden 
to-night,  to  get  the  names  altered.  As  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang says,  it  is  one  of  those  things  that  can  not  be 
left  an  open  question." 

"As  Mr.  Wolfgang  says?"  repeats  Jeanne, 
feeling  her  powers  of  utterance  growing  stronger 
and  stronger.  "  Mr.  Wolfgang  is  extremely  good, 
to  interest  himself  in  my  concerns,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  his  recasting  of  the  piece  is  admirable. 
But  I  mean  to  act  my  part.  I  mean  to  wear  my 
dress.  I  mean  my  name  to  remain  where  it  stands 
in  the  programme." 

With  the  close  of  each  firm,  staccatoed  sen- 


224  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

tence,  Lady  Pamela's  face  falls  lower  and  lower. 
She  is  as  generous,  as  little  selfish,  as  the  blood 
that  runs  in  her  veins  will  allow.  But  the  Hood 
runs  there.  Grapes  must  no  man  ask  from  this- 
tles, nor  pretty  feeling  more  durable  than  powder 
on  the  wing  of  a  butterfly  from  Lord  Yauxhall's 
granddaughter.  Would  not  poor  Lady  Pamela, 
with  her  half -cynical,  half -pathetic  outspokenness, 
be  herself  the  first  to  tell  you  so  ?  Hard,  doubt- 
less, for  a  child  of  Jeanne's  age  to  forego  prom- 
ised pleasure  ;  but  life  altogether  (who  knows  it 
better  than  Lady  Pamela  Lawless  ?)  has  a  trick 
of  being  hard  on  most  of  us,  and,  if  none  piped 
while  others  wept,  where  were  a  good  two  thirds 
or  more  of  the  world's  cheeriest  piping  ? 

"  You  think,  really  and  truly,  that  there  is  a 
chance  of  your  being  well  enough  to  act  by  to- 
morrow ?  I  understood  from  Miss  Yivash — "  she 
is  beginning — 

"  There  is  every  chance  of  my  being  well  by 
to-morrow,"  interrupts  Jeanne  ;  "  the  more  so  as 
I  am  just  as  well  as  I  ever  was — my  hoarseness, 
even,  gone — at  this  moment.  As  to  Miss  Yivash," 
she  continues  hotly,  "  Schloss  Egmont,  as  yet,  is 
not  under  Miss  Yivash's  rule.  Neither  am  I  !  " 

Lady  Pamela  tosses  down  Jeanne's  brocades 
and  laces  on  the  nearest  chair  that  comes  to  her 
hand. 

"  Then  the  theatricals,  to  my  mind,  had  best 
be  given  up,"  she  exclaims,  with  considerable  ill 


EFFACED.  225 

humor  ;  "  just  as  we  had  every  prospect,  too,  of 
assured  success.  .  .  .  The  scenes  between  Sir 
Christopher  and  myself  would  be  perfect,  natu- 
rally !  Kit  Marlowe  and  I  have  been  acting  to- 
gether all  our  lives — and,  as  Mr.  Wolfgang  says, 
the  play,  as  art,  is  a  vast  deal  better  with  the 
Grand  Chamberlain  struck  out.  But,  of  course, 
if  people  are  determined,  they  are  determined." 

Jeanne  does  not  contradict  this  profound  apho- 
rism. A  feeling  deeper  than  balked  vanity,  sharp- 
er than  regret  over  a  few  hours'  frustrated  plea- 
sure, holds  her  dumb. 

Taking  the  girl's  silence  as  a  hopeful  earnest 
of  coming  surrender,  Lady  Pamela  runs  on  vol- 
ubly : 

"  I  am  quite  as  disappointed  for  you  as  you 
can  be  for  yourself.  You  would  make  a  delight- 
ful little  Maid  of  Honor,  in  your  patches  and 
powder — although  a  trifle  grave,  perhaps  !  a  char- 
acter in  one  of  the  Tyrolese  Passion  plays  might 
suit  your  coloring  better — and  if  you  like  to  wear 
your  dress  for  the  dances  afterward,  I  don't 
mind  giving  it  up  to  you  a  bit.  (Indeed,  I  more 
than  suspect  I  look  better  in  my  own  crimson  and 
silver.)  A  heavenly  notion,  is  it  not,  of  utilizing 
Evans?  Oh,  I  forgot,  you  were  not  present  at 
the  conclave.  Mr.  Wolfgang  deserves  the  whole 
credit  of  the  idea.  The  Grand  Chamberlain  is  to 
be  effaced  bodily,  my  dear,  and  Evans  introduced 
as  a  dumb  crambo  page,  to  bow  us  all  in  and  off 
15 


226  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

the  scene.  We  thought  you  would  not  care  for  a 
page's  dress — doublet  and  hose,  etc.  ?  No,  Mam- 
selle  Ange  was  sure  you  would  not.  So  Mr.  Wolf- 
gang suggested  Evans — Evans,  amid  whose  mani- 
fold faults  that  of  ultra-prudishness  can  not  be 
reckoned." 

"  I — I  think  I  begin  to  see  how  matters  stand," 
remarks  Jeanne,  after  a  minute's  reflection — a 
minute  during  which  months,  years  of  pain  seem, 
prospectively,  to  cast  their  shadows  across  her 
heart.  "It  was  Mr.  Wolfgang's  idea,  you  say, 
that  the  Grand  Chamberlain's  part  should  be 
struck  out.  From  Mr.  Wolfgang,  also,  came  the 
suggestion,  no  doubt,  that  my  name  should  be  ef- 
faced from  the  programme  ?  " 

Lady  Pamela  draws  forth  a  folded  slip  of  pa- 
per from  her  waist-belt. 

"  A  tender  billet-doux,  of  which  Mr.  Wolfgang 
asked  me  to  be  the  bearer.  Nay,  never  turn  so 
red,  child  ;  I  can  be  discreet  on  occasion,  let  alone 
that  the  billet  is  written  in  an  unknown  tongue  ! 
Mr.  Wolfgang  feels  sure,  he  says,  that  the  missive 
will  put  an  end  to  all  our  difficulties." 

And  this  is  what  the  missive  contains — two 
lines  written,  in  German,  in  the  rapid,  firm  hand 
Jeanne  knows  so  well : 

"  MY  LITTLE  PUPIL  :  Do  me  a  favor — the  sec- 
ond favor  I  have  asked  of  you — give  up  your  part 
in  the  theatricals.  WOLFGANG." 


EFFACED.  227 

"  Well  ! "  cries  Lady  Pamela,  with  scarcely 
veiled  impatience.  "  What  is  your  ultimatum  ? 
Is  Evans  to  make  her  appearance  in  hose  and 
doublet,  or — " 

"  You  will  do  as  you  like — let  Mr.  Wolfgang 
and  Miss  Yivash  decide  everything  as  they  choose," 
cries  Jeanne,  with  a  firm  lip,  a  steady  color.  "  The 
play  will  go  on  better  without  me,  and  I — am  only 
too  glad  to  be  a  spectator,  not  an  actor." 

"And  I  may  really  take  possession ' of  your 
dress  ?  "  cries  Lady  Pamela,  with  tardy  compunc- 
tion, but  suiting  the  action  to  the  word.  "  I  vow 
this  is  all  too  bad.  If  it  were  not  for  my  sense  of 
honesty  toward  the  public,  I  should  be  tempted  to 
scratch  my  own  name,  too.  Brocaded  petticoat, 
bodice,  fan  !  Yes "  (examining  her  borrowed 
plumes  critically),  "all  the  materials  are  here,  and 
the  only  item  wanting  will  be  a  face  of  seventeen 
to  set  them  off.  A  pity  you  could  not  lend  me 
that  as  well,  Jeanne  !  A  face  of  seventeen,  and 
the  heart  that  belongs  to  it." 

"  You  would  pretty  soon  find  that  you  had  the 
worst  of  the  bargain,"  answers  Jeanne  Dempster 
sorrowfully. 


228  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

CHAPTER  XVIH. 

IM   WALD. 

SATURDAY  comes,  and  Schloss  Egmont,  from 
morn  till  dusk,  is  astir  with  feverish  preparation. 

Mamselle  Ange's  faculties,  like  those  of  a 
general  in  battle,  seem  to  quicken,  her  perceptions 
to  clear,  under  the  pressure  of  immediate  action. 
She  remembers  her  own  orders  for  at  least  five 
minutes  at  a  time  ;  keeps  her  keys  in  her  basket, 
keeps  her  cap  on  her  head  ;  and,  ably  seconded  by 
the  Frau  Pastor  Meyer,  contrives  ubiquitously  to 
render  miserable  the  life  of  every  serving  person, 
male  and  female,  throughout  the  Schloss. 

The  London  visitors,  a  hasty  one-o'clock  meal 
swallowed,  appear  no  more  ;  so  intent  is  each 
member  of  the  Bernstein  Incapables  upon  wigs, 
rouge,  patches,  false  eyebrows,  paste  diamonds, 
and  sentiments  to  correspond  !  Mistress  Evans 
haunts  the  staircases  in  picturesque  disarray — 
Mistress  Evans,  amid  whose  manifold  faults  that 
of  ultra-prudishness  can  not  be  reckoned — with 
pinching-irons,  perukes,  plumes,  Hessians,  and 
other  theatrical  properties  in  her  hand.  Inces- 
sant hammering  resounds  from  the  saal,  where 
the  village  carpenters,  tardy  to  the  last,  bestow 
final  touches  on  foot-lights,  slips,  and  drop-scenes. 
A  rich  dramatic  flavor  of  oil  and  sawdust,  intensi- 


IM  WALD.  229 

fied  by  culinary  whiffs  from  kitchen  and  larder, 
fills  the  atmosphere. 

As  evening  approaches,  the  avenue  leading  to 
the  Schloss  begins  to  fill  with  working-people  ; 
the  women  in  their  Sonntagschleife,  holiday  pet- 
ticoats, smart  kerchiefs,  full  white  sleeves  and 
silver  jewelry  ;  the  men  in  gayly  buttoned  jack- 
ets, slouched  felt  hats,  and  long  plush  waistcoats, 
d  la  Grandison.  Grave  are  they  all  of  demeanor, 
silent,  dignified,  as  the  guests  at  a  court  concert. 

"A  stone-mason's  bill  can  make  poor  amends 
for  a  broken  heart." 

....  The  Black  Forest  peasant  is  by  nature 
stolid,  a  human  creature  chary  of  speech — save  at 
rare  vinous  intervals — reticent  of  memory.  And 
the  story  of  Wendolin's  Malva  has  long  been  a 
household  word  throughout  the  district.  Paul 
von  Egmont  will  receive  welcome  to  his  father's 
house,  among  his  own  people.  The  sunshine  of  a 
dozen  Julys  has  not  effaced  from  men's  memories 
the  winter  morning  when  Paul  von  Egmont's 
sweetheart  was  laid  to  rest  among  new-fallen 
snows — not  whiter  than  the  maiden's  own  fair 
name — in  St.  Ulrich's  churchyard. 

And  Jeanne — how  fares  it  with  her  ? 

Alone,  among  the  festive  preparations,  is 
Jeanne  Dempster,  dull,  unexpectant,  a  spectator, 
not  an  actor  in  the  play.  She  helps,  with  me- 
chanical show  of  interest,  as  long  as  her  help  is 
wanted  ;  assists  the  Frau  Pastor  in  garnishing 


230  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

the  supper-table  with  flowers  ;  writes  out  the 
tickets  for  the  cloak-room  ;  is  called  upon,  more 
than  once,  to  aid  Mistress  Evans  in  her  green- 
room labors.  A  tuck  must  be  run  here  ;  some 
plaits  are  wanted  there.  As  she,  Jeanne,  is  not 
going  to  act,  surely  she  would  find  it  an  amuse- 
ment to  take  in  hand  the  crimping  of  Beauty's 
wig,  to  play  prompter  while  Kit  Marlowe  and 
Lady  Pamela  run  over  one  or  two  of  their  most 
telling  love-scenes  ?  And  then  there  are  the  pro- 
grammes. •  As  the  Ugly  Duckling  has  no  part  to 
rehearse,  no  details  of  dress  upon  her  conscience, 
would  she  kindly  affix  pencils  to  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pink  programmes,  with  ribbon — and  neatly  ? 
Only  when  the  sun  has  begun  to  sink  is  Jeanne 
free  to  steal  out  to  the  Wald,  sharer  of  her  child- 
ish joys,  confidant,  during  the  past  summer  weeks, 
of  sweetest,  most  golden,  most  fallacious  dreams. 
Alas  !  and  the  Wald  comforts  her  not.  We  re- 
ceive from  Nature  as  much  as  we  bring  to  her ; 
ounce  for  ounce.  Nature  gives  back  faithfully  ; 
she  does  not  modify  our  moods.  Jeanne  Demp- 
ster has,  hitherto,  been  content  to  live  without 
horizons.  The  environment  of  pine-girt  moun- 
tains, the  bounded  vistas  of  closely  columned  for- 
est have  brought  to  her,  as  they  bring  to  every 
true  child  of  the  Wald,  a  sense  of  liberty  rather 
than  imprisonment.  In  this  hour,  her  feverish 
heart  yearns  for  a  wider  outlook,  a  freer  breath- 
ing-space. Taught  by  the  same  instinct  that  in- 


IM  WALD.  231 

formed  Dr.  Johnson's  "  Rasselas,"  she  feels  that 
she  needs  more  than  the  Schwarzwald  can  yield ; 
would  fain  overstep  the  Blauen  tops  and  enter 
upon  a  world  alien  to  Schloss  Egmont,  uncolored 
by  her  personal  hopes  and  disappointments. 

The  village  Kirchhof,  with  its  pair  of  giant 
yews,  its  crowd  of  low  black  crosses,  stands  on 
a  sandy  mound  among  the  fir-woods.  From  the 
steps  of  the  little  Chapel  of  the  Dead  you  may  see 
the  blue  Yosges  Mountains  above  the  Rhine  plain, 
may  even,  in  fair  weather,  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  white-gleaming  Strasburg  Cathedral  spires. 
Thither  Jeanne  makes  her  way  ;  her  face  down- 
bent,  her  step  slow  and  unelastic.  Late  summer 
though  it  be,  the  Wald  orchestra  is  not  dumb. 
Although  their  second  broods  are  on  the  wing, 
the  ousel  and  goldhammer  pipe  a  blithe  duet ; 
the  woodpecker  taps  his  castanet  accompaniment 
on  the  branches  ;  at  intervals  the  crake  calls  soft- 
ly from  a  neighboring  patch  of  yellowing  corn. 

Jeanne  bethinks  her  of  the  July  evenings, 
years  ago,  when  she  and  blind  Lottchen  held  it  a 
kind  of  holiday  pleasure  to  visit  the  churchyard, 
their  small  arms  laden  with  flowers  for  the  grave 
of  Wendolin's  Malva.  Lottchen's  sympathy,  she 
remembers,  would  on  these  occasions  flow  forth 
without  let  or  hindrance.  In  her  own  mind,  there 
lurked,  ever,  a  certain  tinge  of  pitying  contempt 
for  the  fate  of  Paul  von  Egmont's  sweetheart. 
With  a  child's  healthy  skepticism  she  used  to 


232  VIVIAN   THE  BEAUTY. 

doubt  the  wisdom  of  dying  (merely  because  one 
lover  proved  recreant)  in  a  world  so  full  of  poten- 
tial lovers  as  this  !  The  philosophy  of  the  grave, 
the  excellence  of  lying  at  rest,  untouched  by  praise 
or  blame,  by  truth  or  infidelity,  come  home  to  her 
to-day. 

"Whoever  smells  a  churchyard  flower,"  so 
runs  a  legend  of  the  Schwarzwald,  "shall  die 
within  the  year." 

Jeanne  has  stood  long  beside  the  sleeping- 
place  of  Malva  and  of  Lottchen — the  echoless 
solitude,  the  golden  white  sky,  the  faint  cold 
odor  from  the  grave-gardens  seeming  to  bring  to 
her  a  kind  of  peace — when  suddenly  the  words  of 
the  legend  run  through  her  heart. 

A  spray  of  rosemary  is  still  in  blossom  above 
poor  Malva's  head.  She  stretches  forth  her  hand 
to  pluck  it — her  fingers  touch  the  stem — she  hesi- 
tates, shivers. 

"  Jeanne  !  "  A  man's  voice  at  a  little  distance 
calls  to  her — a  voice,  low  though  it  be,  which  ar- 
rests her  arm,  which  hurries  back  the  blood-hue 
to  her  cheek. 

She  turns  languidly  ;  with  faint  limbs  moves 
a  dozen  paces  away  from  Malva's  grave,  and  finds 
herself  face  to  face  with  Wolfgang. 

"  The  air  grows  chill  here,"  says  the  master, 
taking  her  reluctant  hand  in  his.  The  cross  above 
the  chapel's  roof  has  in  truth  at  this  moment  gone 
from  amber  to  gray.  "On  the  heights  among 


IM  WALD.  233 

the  Zauberfelsen  we  shall  find  ourselves  in  sun- 
shine for  another  half  hour  at  least,  and  half  an 
hour's  sunshine  is  something  worth  adding  to 
one's  life.  Come." 

He  keeps  possession  of  Jeanne's  hand  :  he 
leads  her  as  one  would  lead  a  child  forth  from 
the  graveyard.  A  few  minutes'  climbing  brings 
them  to  the  Zauberfelsen — three  or  four  huge 
granite  bowlders  bedded  among  bracken  and 
mosses  in  the  hillside,  and  upon  which,  through 
an  oblique  clearing  in  the  forests,  the  crimson 
level  sun  streams  full. 

"I  came  up  to  you  just  in  time,"  the  master 
whispers,  after  a  silence.  "  Have  you  lived  all 
these  years  in  the  Schwarzwald  without  learn- 
ing the  fate  in  store  for  those  who  pluck  a  grave- 
yard flower  ?  " 

"Not  half  a  bad  fate,"  answers  Jeanne  hur- 
riedly, "if  the  legend  were  but  true  !  Unfor- 
tunately, my  faith  is  lukewarm.  I  do  not  believe 
that  death  can  be  wooed  and  our  troubles  ended 
by  so  easy  a  means  as  breaking  a  sprig  of  rose- 
mary." 

"  And  what  reason  have  you  for  talking  of 
trouble — for  spending  the  goldenest  hour  of  the 
twenty-four  among  the  dead  ?  At  my  age,"  says 
the  master,  "  every  day  is  an  anniversary,  a  fitting 
occasion  for  sad  remembrance — a  day  of  forced 
rejoicing  like  this  most  of  all.  But  you,  little 
Jeanne,  what  made  you  choose  the  evening  of  Yon 


234  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Egmont's  return  for  visiting  her  grave  who  lies 
below  us  there  ?  " 

"  I  chose  because  there  was  no  joyfuller  thing 
for  me  to  do,"  is  Jeanne's  answer.  "  No  one 
wants  me  in  Schloss  Egmont.  I  have  no  place  in 
the  merry-making.  And  my  visit  to  Wendolin's 
Malva  has  done  me  good,"  she  adds  with  an  ef- 
fort. "  It  has  reminded  me  that  sorrowful  lives 
come  to  an  end,  *  that  even  the  weariest  river  ' — 
you  taught  me  that  line  once,  sir  ;  you  were  jeal- 
ous, you  said,  that  Heine  had  not  written  it — <  that 
even  the  weariest  river  winds  somewhere  safe  to 
the  sea.' " 

Her  deep  eyes  fill,  the  wild-rose  color  dies 
from  out  her  delicate  cheeks. 

"Jeanne,  my  child,"  says  Wolfgang,  steal- 
ing his  arm  around  the  girl's  slight  shoulder, 
"  am  not  I  your  friend  ?  Are  you  so  changed 
by  association  with  smart  people,  by  stories  of 
'  silks  and  scandals,'  of  court  balls  and  Twick- 
enham dinners,  as  to  count  my  friendship  for 
nothing  ?  " 

"  Friendship,"  she  repeats,  with  drooping  lids, 
with  lips  over-ready  to  surrender.  "Ah,  Herr 
Wolfgang,  if  I  could  think,  could  believe — " 
Then  the  scene  of  which  she  was  an  unwilling 
witness  at  Badenweiler  thrills  through  her  brain  ; 
she  turns  upon  him  with  an  abrupt  flash  of  indig- 
nation. "  But  you  have  not  the  right  to  speak  to 
me  like  this.  No,  sir,  you  have  not  the  right ! 


IM  WALD.  235 

You  can  not,  honestly,  be  Miss  Vivash's  suitor 
one  day,  and  the  next — " 

"  I  have  never  been  Miss  Vivash's  suitor,"  in- 
terrupts Wolfgang  firmly,  "and  never  shall  be 
while  she  and  I  inhabit  the  same  planet.  Through 
blind  accident,  a  mischievous  caprice  of  Paul  von 
Egmont's  sister,  I  have  been  thrown  into  Miss 
Vivash's  society.  I  have  not  once  forgotten,  I 
hope,  the  distance  that  lies  between  us.  As  to 
being  her  suitor,  Fraulein  Jeanne,  what  could 
have  put  a  notion  so  extravagant  into  your 
head?" 

"  Your  own  language  and  hers,"  answers 
Jeanne  Dempster  unhesitatingly.  "There  shall 
be  no  more  secrets,  sir,  between  you  and  me.  I 
will  make  full  confession  of  the  truth.  The  other 
night  at  Badenweiler,  when  you  and  Miss  Vivash 
walked  together  under  the  veranda,  I  was  there, 
hidden  ....  and  I  heard  all  !  It  was  scarcely 
my  fault  at  first.  You — you  came  upon  me  so 
suddenly  I  had  not  time  to  think  about  being 
honorable,  and  afterward  I  felt  too  miserable,  too 
covered  with  shame,  to  show  myself.  Yes,  and  I 
heard  all!  .Now,  believe  as  badly  of  me  as  you 
choose." 

Her  head  droops  on.  her  breast.  She  turns  as 
though  to  leave  him  ;  but  with  kindly  force  Wolf- 
gang's arm  holds  her  close. 

Ousel  and  goldhammer  by  now  have  piped 
themselves  to  rest  ;  the  wind  sinks  lower  as  the 


236  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

sun's  last  beams  fall .  round  and  yellow  upon  the 
fir-stems.  It  seems  to  Jeanne  in  this  palpitating 
light,  this  tremulous  stillness,  as  though  Nature 
herself  held  her  breath. 

"  You  heard  all."  The  master's  voice  comes 
to  her  as  from  a  sweet,  partially  familiar  world  of 
dreams.  "  I  half  suspected  as  much  when  you 
told  me  in  the  ballroom  that  you  would  not  bear 
the  weight  of  my  perjuries  on  your  soul.  You 
heard  all,  and  I  have  nothing  more  to  add,  for  you 
know — that  I  love  you  !  It  was  forced  on  me," 
he  goes  on,  like  one  who  would  fain  settle  some 
moot  point  of  conscience  with  himself,  "  to  take 
Miss  Yivash  into  my  confidence.  She  showed  a 
good-natured  interest  in  my  prospects,  and  our 
talk  so  shaped  itself  that  I  had  no  choice  but  to 
speak  to  her  of  my  hopes — my  hopes  of  winning 
Jeanne  Dempster's  heart.  If  you  heard  all,  child, 
you  must  know  that  Miss  Vivash's  forecasts  as 
to  my  fate  were  unfavorable.  Was  she  right" 
(and  the  tremble  of  strong  emotion  is  in  Wolf- 
gang's voice),  "  or  was  I  ?  " 

But  Jeanne  answers  not.  In  thought  she 
passes  again  through  that  hour's  physical  torture 
when  she  believed  Wolfgang  to  be  false.  She 
sees  the  error  into  which  blinded  jealousy  be- 
trayed her  ;  realizes,  with  rapture  so  keen  as  to 
be  wellnigh  pain,  that  she  has  not,  has  never  had, 
a  rival  in  his  affection. 

"  If — if  you  care  for  me  a  very  little,  you  have 


IM  WALD.  237 

found  a  strange  way,  during  the  past  week,  of 
showing  your  regard,  Herr  Wolfgang." 

"  I  might  make  a  like  remark,  Miss  Dempster. 
Oh,  the  lonely  walks  with  Sir  Christopher  (that 
first  walk,  on  the  night  of  his  arrival,  not  forgot- 
ten), the  dances  with  Sir  Christopher,  the  pretty 
speeches  from  Sir  Christopher,  that  I  have  been 
forced  to  endure  !  " 

She  turns  aside  ;  the  consciousness  of  a  heart 
stirred  by  new  instincts  painting  her  face. 

"  May  not  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe  have  taken 
pity  on  me  because  he  saw  that  I  was  neglected  ?  " 

"  And  is  there  not  some  English  saying  about 
pity  being  near  akin  to  love  ?  " 

"As  much  love  as  Sir  Christopher  can  give 
belongs  to  Lady  Pamela  Lawless  !  "  cries  Jeanne 
with  a  deeper  blush.  It  will  be  long  before  the 
scene  under  the  dripping  Baden weiler  lime-trees 
ceases  to  occasion  her  some  retrospective  twinges 
of  remorse.  "  Whatever  my  sins  have  been  in 
the  past,  they  are  punished — and  by  you,  sir.  Is 
not  my  name  effaced  from  the  theatricals  ?  Have 
you  not  refused  to  play  Leoni  to  my  Giulia  ?  " 

The  master  takes  her  in  his  arms.  During  a 
few  quick  breaths  he  holds  her  close,  as  though 
pausing,  with  epicurean  hesitation,  on  the  brink 
of  his  own  happiness.  Then  he  kisses  her. 

"As  we  are  making  a  clean  confession,"  he 
says  presently,  "  I  had  better  let  mine  be  com- 
plete. I  am  inveterately  suspicious  by  tempera- 


238  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

ment,  jealous  as  a  Spaniard — as  well  prepare  you 
betimes  for  the  future  that  is  in  store  for  you  ! 
I  grudged  that  the  eyes  of  a  hundred  strangers 
should  see  my  little  Jeanne,  rouged,  travestied, 
making  equivocal  love-speeches  before  the  foot- 
lights. To  women  of  the  world,  great  ladies,  reign- 
ing beauties,  such  an  exhibition,"  says  Wolfgang, 
"  comes  in  the  natural  order  of  things.  For  you 
I  would  have  none  of  it — that  much  I  determined 
on  the  evening  where  a  certain  simple  heart  first 
awoke  to  vanity,  mein  Fraulein,  in  the  moment 
when  I  first  saw  a  little  figure  I  love,  patched  and 
powdered  and  painted,  in  Kit  Marlowe's  arms. 
The  rest  of  us  will  go  through  our  parts  to  ad- 
miration, untroubled,  certainly,  by  any  foolish 
diffidence,  and  you  will  put  on  your  muslin  frock 
and  coral  beads — yes,  I  will  take  no  refusal  about 
those  coral  beads — sit,  Griselda-f  ashion,  in  a  cor- 
ner, and  listen  to  our  plaudits." 

"  And  not  dance  throughout  the  evening,  of 
course,  sir?  Say  'No,'  even  if  Count  Paul  should 
invite  me  to  be  his  partner  ?  " 

"  Even  if  Count  Paul  should  invite  you  !  " 
repeats  Wolfgang,  with  a  smile,  repressed,  ere 
Jeanne  has  had  time  to  suspect  its  import.  "  Ay, 
there  will  be  the  crucial  temptation.  How,  if 
Count  Paul  should  offer  himself — not  as  your 
partner  in  a  waltz  only  ?  How  if  he  should  place 
Schloss  Egmont  and  all  belonging  to  it,  Count 
Paul  included,  at  your  feet  ?  " 


IM  WALD.  239 

"  Schloss  Egmont  and  all  belonging  to  it  will 
be  offered  to  Miss  Vivash,"  says  Jeanne,  not  with- 
out a  certain  wistf ulness.  "  Count  Paul,  we  know, 
is  a  passionate  worshiper  of  beauty,  and  I — al- 
though Mr.  Wolfgang  is  good  enough  to  care  for 
me  a  little — I  have  red  hair  and  freckles  and  thin 
arms,  and  might  sit  as  a  model,  so  says  Miss  Vi- 
vash, in  the  Great  Art  School  of  Ugliness.  Do  you 
suppose  Count  Paul  would  even  look  at  me  in  her 
presence  ?  " 

"  Hard  to  prognosticate.  Paul  von  Egmont, 
like  all  his  race,  is  of  an  unreliable,  many-sided 
temperament.  Although  his  artistic  sense  may 
have  been  led  captive  by  a  full-cut  mouth,  a 
sweep  of  throat  (and  such  charms  will  pose  for 
you  in  Rome,  I  am  told,  at  five  lire  the  hour), 
who  shall  say  that  the  fellow  is  not  true  at  heart 
to  his  boyish  ideal,  that  he  may  not  wish  to  take 
up  his  life  and  the  best  inspiration  for  art  at  the 
point  where  he  was  faithless  to  both  more  than 
a  dozen  years  ago  ?  Little  Jeanne,"  says  Wolf- 
gang, earnestly,  "would  you  have  strength  to 
withstand  the  temptation,  did  it  arrive  ?  On  one 
side,  a  position,  name,  competence  ;  on  the  oth- 
er—" 

But  Jeanne's  arms  are  round  the  master's 
neck  ;  her  dark  eyes  look  up,  with  infinite  ten- 
derness in  their  depths,  to  his. 

"For  competence,  for  position,  for  all  that 
Count  Paul  von  Egmont  has  to  offer,  I  care  no- 


240  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

tiling.  Miss  Vivash  may  have  them,  freely.  She 
can  not  take  from  me  the  only  riches,  the  only 
happiness  I  desire  to  possess." 

Her  voice,  her  glance  might  set  jealousy,  even 
more  inveterate  than  Wolfgang's,  at  rest. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


EIGHT  o'clock  has  struck  ;  the  guests  are  as- 
sembled ;  the  curtain  is  in  readiness  to  rise.  But 
the  places  of  honor,  in  the  foremost  row  of  "  stalls," 
remain  unoccupied.  Their  High  Transparencies, 
at  the  Residenz,  have  not  even  sent  a  gentleman- 
in-waiting  to  represent  them.  Paul  von  Egmont 
himself  arrives  not. 

Miss  Vivash,  an  ideally  lovely  (stage)  Duch- 
ess, in  paste  brilliants,  satins,  rouge,  is  not  at  the 
smallest  pains  to  dissemble  her  ill  humor  from 
her  fellow  actors.  Coquettes  have  existed,  in 
poets'  brains,  if  nowhere  else,  who,  on  occasion, 
would  pardon  a  man  the  injury  they  had  wrought 
him.  "  Oft  she  rejects,"  wrote  Pope  of  his  Be- 
linda, "  but  never  once  offends."  From  the  ashes 
of  each  of  Ninon's  discarded  lovers,  we  read,  arose, 
phoenix-like,  a  friend  !  The  type  is  obsolete.  Mod- 
ern beauty  has  her  head  too  full  of  practical  busi- 
ness interests  to  give  heed  to  the  finer  niceties  of 


BEAUTY'S   CROWNING   TRIUMPH.  241 

generous  sentiment.  Pass  beyond  the  stage  of  con- 
crete admiration,  the  stage  of  bracelets,  bouquets, 
and  opera-tickets  ;  escape  with  only  a  surface- 
wound  or  two,  as  Sir  Christopher  and  Wolfgang 
have  both  escaped  from  Vivian's  hands,  and  she 
will  feel  such  bitterness  toward  you  as  only  foiled 
vanity,  frustrated  greed  of  conquest,  can,  in  a  na- 
ture of  a  certain  caliber,  engender. 

"  If  I  could  have  foreseen  that  the  thing  was  to 
end  in  a  contemptible  fiasco,  I  would  have  thrown 
up  my  part  at  the  eleventh  hour."  (Thus  the 
Goddess,  angrily  pacing  up  and  down  the  boards 
of  the  extemporized  green-room.)  "  Indeed,  I  am 
by  no  means  certain  I  shall  not  do  so  now." 

"  And  our  audience  ?  "  expostulates  Wolfgang. 
"  The  hundred  and  fifty  spectators  who,  at  this 
moment,  await  the  rising  of  the  curtain  ?  " 

"  An  audience  of  dowds  and  boors  !  "  (The 
body  of  the  saal  is  filled  with  Grafs,  GrSfins,  and 
barons — the  whole  collected  High-well-borns  of 
the  district.  The  workmen  and  smaller  bourgeois 
of  St.  Ulrich  have,  by  Paul  von  Egmont's  orders, 
been  admitted  to  the  music-gallery.)  "  Of  course, 
if  one  were  in  a  first-rate  troupe  it  would  be  differ- 
ent. Even  before  a  set  of  country  bumpkins  one 
might  act,  for  the  pleasure  of  acting.  But  with 
such  a  cast  as  ours  ! — " 

"Thanks  for  the  implied  compliment,"  cries 
Sir  Christopher,  from  the  corner  where  he  and 
Lady  Pamela  are  contentedly  rehearsing,  or  fore- 
16 


242  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

stalling,  their  coming  love-scenes.  "The  cakes 
are  eaten,  the  ale  is  drunk,  Miss  Yivash.  Still,  I 
remember  the  day  when  you  and  I  flattered  our- 
selves on  being  two  of  the  best  amateur  actors  in 
London — or  Leamington,  which  was  it  ?  " 

The  Beauty's  pale  eyes  flash.  It  was  in  Leam- 
ington that  Kit  Marlowe,  not  one  brief  twelve- 
month ago,  received  the  blow  that  should  have 
been  his  death-wound.  And  Kit  Marlowe  is 
heart-whole  already — nay,  if  a  certain  radiant 
look  on  Lady  Pamela's  face  speak  true,  is  already 
far  upon  the  road  to  another  and  a  happier  love. 

"A  thousand  pities  the  cast  was  changed," 
she  resumes.  "  Little  Jeanne's  classic  pronuncia- 
tion would  have  appealed,  charmingly,  in  her  final 
speech  to  the  gods,  our  critics. 

"  *  Oh,  bray  don't  do  anything  for  mich ! 
Apove  all,  matam,  don't  get  me  a  huspand.' " 

So  Miss  Vivash  imitates,  or  believes  she  imi- 
tates, the  slightly  German  accents  of  Jeanne 
Dempster's  voice.  The  color  deepens  on  Wolf- 
gang's face  ;  but  self-control  is  the  habit  of  his 
life,  and  he  keeps  his  temper  to  admiration. 

"  Brava,  Miss  Vivash,  brava  !  If  Paul  von 
Egmont  have  inherited  the  family  proclivities,  he 
will  be  a  lover  of  all  things  dramatic,  a  judge  of 
histrionic  talent.  Be  sure  he  will  appreciate  your 
powers  of  mimicry  to  the  full ! " 

Even  while  Wolfgang  speaks,  the  blast  from 
a  postilion's  horn  reechoes  through  the  avenue  ; 


BEAUTY'S  CROWNING  TRIUMPH.  243 

the  clang  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  rattling  of  wheels, 
stir  in  the  court  below.  A  couple  of  minutes  later 
come  the  sound  of  footsteps  passing  the  green- 
room ;  there  is  a  creaking  of  hinges  as  the  doors 
of  the  audience-saal  are  thrown  open,  and  then — 
a  hush  !  Paul  von  Egmont,  if  it  be  he,  is  wel- 
comed to  his  father's  house  with  more  state  than 
enthusiasm. 

Lady  Pamela  and  Vivian  rush,  with  one  ac- 
cord, from  the  green-room  across  the  stage. 

"  A  faded-looking  lad  with  well-cut  clothes,  a 
military  order  on  his  breast,  an  inch  and  a  half  of 
brain,  and  eyelids."  So  exclaims  Lady  Pamela, 
peeping  cautiously  between  the  folds  of  the  cur- 
tain. "A  couple  of  faded  followers,  all  bows 
and  scrapes,  and  yellow  gloves  and  polished 
boots  !  Can  this  be  the  careless  Bohemian,  the 
prodigal  son,  the  picturesque  heir  of  all  the  Von 
Egmonts  ! " 

"  It  is  the  young  Prince,  Ernest  Waldemar," 
cries  Vivian,  an  inflection  of  newly-awakened 
eagerness  in  her  voice.  "  He  must  have  heard 
— the  people  at  the  Residenz  must  have  heard 
— that  I  was  to  act.  Don't  you  remember  Mr. 
Chodd's  wrath  about  him  at  the  Derby  ?  Prince 
Ernest  was  on  Lord  William  Frederick's  drag, 
and  poor  Samuel  would  not  allow  me —  Oh  " 
(breaking  away  from  these  reminiscences  of  the 
Chodd  tragedy),  "we  must  begin  at  once  !  now 
that  his  Highness  is  here,  it  would  be  in  the 


244  VIVIAN  THE   BEAUTY. 

worst  possible  taste  to  wait.  Paul  von  Egmont 
desired,  in  his  last  telegram,  that  the  curtain 
should  rise  punctually  at  eight,  whether  he  ar- 
rived in  time  or  not. — Am  I  rouged  enough,  my 
dear  Pamela  ?  Are  you  certain  my  left  patch  is 
in  its  proper  place  ? — Sir  Christopher,  you  under- 
stand these  things  "  (turning  to  her  old  lover 
with  restored  affability) — "  is  not  my  left  patch 
the  least  fraction  imaginable  too  low  ?  " 

She  flies  to  one  of  the  mirrors  in  the  green- 
room, and  holding  a  taper  on  high,  surveys  the 
artificial  snow  and  rose-bloom  of  her  own  face, 
eagerly.  Sir  Christopher  Marlowe  follows  her. 

"  For  anything  short  of  princes,  I  should  say, 
let  the  patch  stand,"  he  remarks  after  grave  de- 
liberation. "  For  a  scion,  no  matter  how  remote, 
of  royal  blood,  I  consider  the  patch  one  sixteenth 
part  of  an  inch  too  low." 

"  Honestly  and  truly  ?  " 

"  On  my  faith  as  an  Englishman.  You  must 
think  poorly  of  my  principles,  Miss  Yivash — you 
must  consider  me  culpably  light-minded,  if  you 
can  suspect  me  even  of  a  jest  in  such  a  matter  ! " 

Well-cut  clothes  ;  a  military  order  ;  an  inch 
and  a  half  of  brain  ;  and  eyelids — a  somewhat 
inadequate  summing  up,  one  would  say,  of  any 
human  creature  possessing  the  normal  amount  of 
bone,  muscle,  nerve,  and  phosphorus.  Still,  con- 
sidering the  very  small  rdle  Prince  Ernest  Wal- 
demar  has  to  play  in  the  drama  of  Beauty's  life, 


BEAUTY'S  CROWNING  TRIUMPH.  245 

we  may,  perhaps,  allow  Lady  Pamela's  rapid  sil- 
houette to  pass  as  a  likeness  ! 

Whatever  intellectual  qualifications  accompa- 
ny his  clothes  and  his  order,  Ernest  Waldemar, 
at  least,  is  a  prince  ;  and,  inspired  by  the  delight- 
ful consciousness  of  quasi-royal  presence,  Vivian 
surpasses  herself  in  the  performance  of  her  part. 
Above  all,  although  she  has  to  play  down  to  the 
teaching-man  from  Freiburg,  do  the  "scenes  of 
love  and  jealousy  "  elicit  applause  from  his  High- 
ness's  delicately  gloved,  pearl-gray  hands.  Ten- 
der, by  natural  default,  Vivian  Vivash  can  not  be, 
either  before  foot-lights  or  away  from  them.  The 
mute,  pathetic  touches,  the  fine  and  subtile  tints  of 
emotion  by  which  a  character  like  Olympia's  can 
be  lifted  out  of  the  realms  of  commonplace,  are 
wanting.  In  effective  poses  of  limb  and  head,  in 
alluring  glances,  in  the  sweep  of  a  train,  in  the 
furl  of  a  fan,  in  all  the  graces  of  such  heroines 
as  Offenbach's  and  Le  Clerc's,  the  Hyde  Park 
Goddess  need  only  remain  herself,  to  be  perfec- 
tion ! 

Prince  Ernest  Waldemar  applauds  long  and 
frequently  ;  the  gentlemen  of  the  Court  who  ac- 
company him  applaud  ;  the  audience,  from  the 
highest  Hochwohlgeboren  in  the  front  seats,  to 
the  clock-makers  and  wood-merchants  in  the  gal- 
lery, applaud  —  human  nature,  in  this  matter  of 
following  the  leader,  being  much  the  same  in  the 
Black  Forest  as  in  nineteenth-century  London. 


246  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

Scarcely  in  the  palmiest  days  of  her  first  season 
(those  brief,  enchanted  days  when,  under  Lord 
Vauxhall's  guidance,  she  learned  hourly  to  shape 
her  lips  to  higher  titles,  when  all  the  smart  town 
ladies  imitated  the  cut  and  color  of  her  one  pro- 
vincial gown)  did  Vivian  obtain  a  more  genuine 
ovation  than  has  befallen  her  now,  a  dethroned, 
scepterless  queen,  and  an  exile. 

And  still  her  triumph  is  incomplete  !  Just  as 
in  London  there  was  ever  one  drawing-room  into 
which  the  very  highest  bribery  and  corruption 
could  not  gain  her  admittance,  one  painter  who 
sought  not  to  immortalize  her  in  his  pictures,  one 
editor  whose  columns  were  closed  to  the  mention 
of  her  charms,  so,  to-night,  one  drop  is  wanting 
in  the  cup  of  her  success.  The  craving  heart  of 
Vivian  Vivash  is  dissatisfied  ;  yes,  even  when,  the 
performance  over,  she  walks  around  the  ballroom 
on  Prince  Ernest  Waldemar's  arm.  One  drop  is 
wanting  in  the  cup — Paul  von  Egmont  is  not 
here  to  swell  the  list  of  her  worshipers  ! 

Is  she  sure  of  him  ? 

Poor  Beauty  has  lost  so  many  things  within 
the  last  few  weeks,  has  felt  so  much  ground 
crumble  away  beneath  her  feet,  that  she  is  pre- 
pared for  misadventure — prepared  for  every  cruel 
transformation  in  that  ficklest  of  all  human  pos- 
sessions, man's  favor  !  Sir  Christopher,  the  most 
Quixotic  once  of  lovers,  consoled,  and  by  her  own 
familiar  friend — Sir  Christopher,  whobut  for  Will- 


BEAUTY'S  CROWNING  TRIUMPH.  247 

o'-the-wisp  visions  of  strawberry-leaves,  would 
have  given  over  his  happiness,  his  honor,  to  her 
keeping  !  Mr.  Chodd's  half  million  lost  for  the 
sake  of  a  Twickenham  dinner  and  of  Lord  Vaux- 
hall  !  Even  Wolfgang's  valueless  heart  in  the 
possession  of  little  red-haired  Jeanne  ! 

How  if  Yon  Egmont's  romantic  worship  should 
end — in  a  sketch  for  the  next  Munich  Exhibition, 
or  a  copy,  say,  of  impassioned  German  verses  ! — 
end  in  the  clouds,  as,  alas  !  so  much  artistic  ad- 
miration of  the  florid  order  has  already  done  ! 
Passing  homages,  ballroom  compliments  from  a 
prince  of  royal  blood,  are  sweet.  Who  knows  the 
smarting  sweetness  thereof  better  than  Vivian 
Vivash  ?  But  princes  of  royal  blood,  however 
aesthetic  in  their  taste,  must  look  for  wives  among 
kings'  daughters.  Their  prettiest  speeches  are 
such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of.  And  the  solid 
walls  and  towers  of  Schloss  Egmont  are  realities. 
And  she,  the  fairest  woman  the  world  has  seen 
since  the  days  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  is  six-and- 
twenty,  and  unwed  ! 

"Et  Monsieur  Chodd?"  asks  the  Prince,- con- 
descending to  press  the  hand  that  rests  upon  his 
arm  ;  "  le  pauvre  Monsieur  Chodd  ?  "  (or  as  his 
Highness  pronounces  the  name,  Jodd.)  "  Qu  'est 
il  devenu  ?  " 

"Mr.  Chodd  left  London  an  eternity  ago," 
says  Vivian. — "  Mr.  Chodd  is  making  a  lengthened 
tour  in  Lapland  for  his  health." 


248  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

"  He  suffers,  as  you  call  it,  vom  heart  com- 
blaint  ?  "  asks  his  Highness. 

Beauty  laughs,  but  uneasily.  The  mention 
of  her  quondam  suitor's  name  seems  like  an  evil 
omen  at  this  new  turning-point  of  her  ever-shift- 
ing career. 

It  stands  in  the  evening's  programme  that 
the  fiddlers,  honest  members  of  the  St.  Ulrich 
Philharmonic,  shall  begin  their  labors  at  ten. 
Already  the  band-master,  hot  and  important,  is 
at  his  post  in  the  music-gallery  ;  already  a  pre- 
liminary scraping  of  strings  is  warning  old  gen- 
tlemen to  look  for  whist-tables,  and  young  ones  to 
look  for  partners — when  Hans,  his  cheeks  red- 
der than  the  facings  of  his  livery,  makes  his  way 
toward  the  dais  at  the  upper  end  of  the  dancing- 
saal.  He  whispers  a  hurried  message  to  Mamselle 
Ange,  at  this  moment  doing  the  honors,  in  all  the 
glory  of  her  ribbons  and  flounces,  to  the  Prince. 
Ere  another  minute  passes,  the  news  that  Paul  von 
Egmont  has  arrived  begins  to  circulate  with  elec- 
tric speed  through  the  ballroom  ;  and  soon,  from 
the  avenue  and  gardens  without,  rises  a  shout, 
loud,  prolonged,  sonorous — a  true  Black  Forest 
"  Hoch  !  "  to  the  like  of  which  the  gray  old  walls 
have  not  echoed  since  the  day  when  the  Countess 
Dolores  was  first  brought  home  to  the  palatinate, 
a  bride. 

A  thrill  goes  through  every  feminine  breast  in 


BEAUTY'S   CROWNING  TRIUMPH.  249 

the  assemblage — from  the  most  venerable  of  the 
Frauleins  von  Katzenellenbogen,  down  to  little 
Jeanne  in  her  confirmation  frock  and  coral  beads. 
Mamselle  Ange,  ludicrously  irresolute,  hovers  sus- 
pended, like  Mohammed's  coffin,  between  the  dais 
and  the  door.  Her  heart  yearns  to  welcome  Paul, 
the  boy  whose  smile  she  would  recognize  among 
a  thousand — yet  will  etiquette  not  suffer  her  to 
turn  her  back  upon  a  prince  of  the  reigning  fami- 
ly, so  long  as  that  prince  shall  think  fit,  by  word 
or  look,  to  recognize  the  fact  of  her  existence. 

Just  at  this  exciting  juncture  Sir  Christopher 
Marlowe,  still  wearing  the  silks  and  laces  of  Ce- 
sario,  crosses  the  ballroom  to  Jeanne.  He  is  fan- 
ning himself  daintily  with  his  three-cornered  vel- 
vet hat,  a  rose  is  in  the  button-hole  of  his  azure 
satin  coat,  a  diamond  snuff-box  in  his  left  hand. 
His  powdered  love-locks,  his  ruffles,  rouge,  and 
patches,  become  his  accurately  handsome  face  to 
a  nicety.  It  would  be  hard,  save  on  the  canvas 
of  Boucher  or  of  Watteau,  to  find  a  more  artisti- 
cally perfect  representation  of  the  eighteenth-cen- 
tury marquis  than  that  presented  by  Kit  Marlowe. 
(Possibly  the  historian  of  the  future  may  pro- 
nounce the  difference  slight — one  of  degree,  rather 
than  kind — between  the  Victorian  dandy  and  the 
frize,  painted petit-maitre  of  the  Regency.)  Jeanne 
bethinks  her  of  Wolfgang's  Spartan  indifference 
to  fashion-books  and  tailors'  shops — not  without 
a  certain  sense  of  pride  in  the  contrast. 


250  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  first  waltz  of  the  even- 
ing," he  supplicates,  with  a  bow  that  surely  Lord 
Yauxhall  could  not  surpass,  "  or  has  Donald  been 
before  me  ?  " 

The  blush  on  Jeanne's  cheek  might  rival  an 
April  sunrise  over  the  Blauen. 

"If  by  4  Donald '  you  mean  Mr.  Wolfgang, 
you  ought  to  know  that  he  is  engaged.  On  the 
evening  you  all  arrived  here,  Miss  Yivash  promised 
to  give  him  the  first  dance  after  the  theatricals." 

"And  you  think  the  promise  will  hold  good, 
now  that  Von  Egmont  has  arrived  ?  Well,  I,  for 
one,  have  no  false  pride,"  cries  Sir  Christopher, 
drawing  Jeanne's  hand  under  his  arm.  "  Although 
merit  can  not  always  win  the  race,  perseverance 
may  insure  one's  coming  in  a  decent  second,  may 
it  not?" 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  what  you  mean  by  *  sec- 
ond,' "  says  Jeanne,  with  a  glance  in  the  direction 
of  Lady  Pamela. 

Kit  Marlowe's  face  becomes  grave  to  edification. 

"  On  se  range"  he  observes  in  the  melancholy 
tone  of  a  man  who  has  been  married  a  dozen 
years.  "  Who  shall  say,  in  the  present  instance, 
through  what  agency?  If  it  had  not  been  for 
our  dance  in  Badenweiler,  my  dear,  for  our  wet- 
ting in  the  thunderstorm,  our  philosophic  d  deux  - 
under  the  lime-trees — " 

"I  should  not  have  lost  my  voice  and  my  share 
in  the  theatricals,"  cries  Jeanne  gayly.  "  I  might 


BEAUTY'S  CROWNING   TRIUMPH.  251 

have  won  as  many  laurels  as  the  best  of  you.  But 
it  is  too  late  now  for  regrets.  No  use,  the  Wald 
folk  say,  in  mourning  over  a  harvest  that  never 
was  sown." 

"  Especially  when  one's  present  prospects  are 
cloudy.  Ah  !  little  Jeanne  "  (in  a  sentimental  whis- 
per), "  rivals  gather  round  me  fast.  Against  our 
particular  Teuton  I  am  forewarned,  but  not 
against  a  legion  of  Teutons — not  against  royal 
highnesses,  barons,  and  counts  !  If  the  returned 
prodigal — if  Paul  von  Egmont  should  invite  you, 
suddenly,  for  this  waltz,  I  wonder  in  how  many 
seconds  you  would  have  the  cruelty  to  throw  me 
over?" 

"  The  returned  prodigal  will  dance  with  every 
noble  lady  present  before  he  thinks  of  me — if  in- 
deed he  thinks  of  me  at  all,"  says  Jeanne  evasively. 

But  her  pulse,  as  she  speaks,  beats  high ;  her 
eyes  scan  the  crowds  that  line  the  entrance-hall 
with  keenest  interest.  Her  heart's  whole  love  she 
has  given  to  Wolfgang  ;  she  would  quit  Schloss 
Egmont,  would  start  with  him,  glad  sharer  of 
his  poverty,  to  the  ends  of  the  world,  to-mor- 
row !  And  still,  to-night,  she  craves — passionate- 
ly craves  for  a  sight  of  Paul  von  Egmont.  The 
master  himself  might  pardon  the  infidelity. 
Through  how  many  lonely  bygone  years  has  not 
Paul  von  Egmont's  boyish  face  been  her  com- 
panion, her  ideal,  I  had  almost  said  the  god  of 
her  idolatry  ? 


252  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

A  movement  begins  to  vibrate  through  the 
crowd.  The  musicians  play  eight  bars  of  the 
opening  waltz.  Prince  Ernest  Waldemar,  with 
the  stoutest,  most  noble  married  lady  present, 
prepares  to  lead  the  ball.  The  gentlemen  of  the 
Court  choose  their  partners  and  follow.  And 
then,  as  the  non-dancers  clear  away,  Jeanne  dis- 
covers— not  Paul  von  Egmont,  but  Wolfgang, 
quietly  standing  beside  Mamselle  Ange,  near  the 
door,  with  Vivian  on  his  arm. 

The  master  is  in  evening  dress  ;  his  head  is 
held  high  ;  some  subtile  transformation  seems  to 
have  come  over  his  whole  manner  and  person. 
He  exchanges  a  word,  a  salutation,  with  all  who 
pass  him  in  the  crowd.  And  Beauty  smiles  on 
him — not  as  once  she  smiled,  but  timidly,  implor- 
ingly !  Beauty  hangs,  with  eager  show  of  in- 
terest, on  his  words.  Beauty  sighs,  turns  aside 
her  face,  calls  into  action  her  whole  artillery  of 
well-used  charms  for  his  benefit  ! 

Can  a  Bond  Street  coat,  a  cambric  cravat,  a 
pair  of  lavender  gloves  have  wrought  this  change, 
or  is  Miss  Vivash  tardily  repentant?  Does  she 
remember,  with  compunction,  how  she  strove  for 
Wolfgang's  heart,  but  to  break  it?  Does  she 
think  of  the  letters  she  wrote  her  beloved  princess, 
of  the  dust  she  wiped  from  the  master's  thread- 
bare sleeve,  of  the  bored  hours  spent  in  his  so- 
ciety, while  she  longed,  openly  and  without  dis- 
guise, for  Paul  von  Egmont's  return  ? 


UPON   THE   ARM   OF   A  PRINCE.  253 

Jeanne's  beating  heart  is  in  a  tumult.  She 
feels  herself  whirled  round,  amid  an  ocean  of  laces 
and  tulles  and  satins,  in  Sir  Christopher's  arms. 
Mingling  with  her  partner's  whispered  gallantries, 
she  hears  the  rushing  of  flying  footsteps.  She 
sees  the  lights,  the  flowers,  the  garlanded  walls, 
like  one  who  dreams.  Confused  foreshadowings 
of  some  overwhelming  surprise,  some  revolution 
in  her  fate,  are  upon  her — vivid,  despite  their  in- 
coherency.  Her  cheeks  suffuse  ;  her  deep  eyes  are 
alight  with  animation.  Never  during  her  seventeen 
years  of  life  has  Janet  Dempster  looked  so  fair. 

The  moment  the  waltz  ends,  a  throng  of  young 
men  flock  around,  eager  to  write  their  names  upon 
the  debutantes  card.  But  Wolfgang,  who  has 
quickly  consigned  Vivian  to  the  Prince,  bears  her 
away  from  them  all  and  from  the  ballroom. 

"  You  are  looking  your  best,  my  little  Jeanne," 
he  whispers.  "  And  the  moment  of  temptation  is 
at  hand  :  Paul  von  Egmont  is  in  the  oak  parlor, 
and  desires  to  make  himself  known  to  you." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

UPON    THE    ARM    OF    A    PRINCE. 

A  SOLITARY  lamp  sheds  its  rays  upon  the 
young  Count's  portrait,  upon  the  marble  spirit- 
faces  of  Goethe  and  Schiller.  A  sleepy  fire  of  early 
moonlight  cleaves  the  dusk.  No  sound  of  distant 


254  VIVIAN  THE  BEAUTY. 

clarionet  or  fiddle  jars  on  the  ear.  Through  wide- 
opened  windows  streams  the  air,  untainted  by 
wine,  millefleurs,  patchouli — fresh  only  with  the 
keen  night-odors  of  the  adjacent  Wald. 

"  At  last  !  "  says  Wolfgang,  closing  the  door 
behind  them,  then  taking  Jeanne's  trembling  hands 
and  drawing  her  to  his  side.  "  Jeanne,  little  sweet- 
heart, what  have  you  all  been  thinking  about  in 
Schloss  Egmont  not  to  recognize  me  sooner  ?  " 

"  To  recognize — Mr.  Wolfgang  !  " 

"I  have  been  with  you,  at  all  hours  of  the 
twenty-four,  in  this  very  room.  (Do  you  remem- 
ber the  night  when  Ange  imprisoned  me  here  ?) 
Paul  von  Egmont's  name  ever  on  your  lips,  his  por- 
trait ever  before  your  eyes,  and  yet  the  truth  has  not 
once  been  suspected  !  A  terrible  lesson  as  to  what 
a  dozen  years'  wear-and-tear  will  do  for  a  man." 

Thus  speaking,  Wolfgang  places  himself  be- 
neath the  portrait  ;  and  suddenly  a  veil  seems 
lifted  from  before  Jeanne  Dempster's  sight.  The 
boy's  fair  cheek  has  grown  bronzed  ;  the  hair  has 
lost  its  brightness  ;  but  for  the  rest — forehead, 
eyes,  expression — all  remain  unchanged. 

A  choking  sensation  rises  in  the  poor  child's 
throat — her  limbs  tremble.  It  seems  to  her  as 
though  the  earth  itself — the  good  old  familiar 
earth  on  which  she  and  Wolfgang  construed  and 
parsed,  quarreled  and  fell  in  love  together — were 
melting  away  beneath  her  feet.  In  such  a  crisis, 
the  first  thought  of  a  woman  of  the  world  would 


UPON   THE  ARM  OF  A  PRINCE.  255 

be  that  she  had  gained  a  wealthy  lover.  To 
Jeanne's  simple  heart  the  crushing,  intolerable 
dread  is,  that  she  may  have  lost  a  poor  one  ! 

"  Count  Paul,  gnadiger  Herr,"  she  is  begin- 
ning, while  a  thousand  confirmatory  trifles,  un- 
heeded at  the  time,  rush  back  in  a  crowd  upon  her 
memory,  "  how  shall  I  ever  ask  your  forgiveness  ?  " 

"You  have  every  reason  to  feel  conscience- 
stricken,"  he  interrupts  her.  "  With  Miss  Vivash 
I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  establish  a  truce. 
With  Ange  I  have  already  made  my  peace — our 
good  Ange,  who  declares  that  she  had  intuitions 
pointing  in  the  right  direction  from  the  first  mo- 
ment that  she  heard  my  voice.  But  you — to 
be  rejected  after  months  or  weeks  of  acquaint- 
ance would  be  stab  enough  to  a  man's  vanity — 
but  you,  Jeanne,  have  rejected  me  unheard.  Oh  " 
(as  she  tries  to  stammer  forth  an  excuse),  "you 
think  that  I  can  forget  what  you  told  me,  six 
hours  ago,  upon  the  Zauberf elsen  ?  You  would 
value  a  home,  a  name,  all  that  Von  Egmont  could 
offer,  not  one  jot.  Miss  Vivash  might  have  them 
freely.  Do  you  say  so  still  ?  " 

"  I  say  that  my  heart  belongs  to  my  master,  to 
Herr  Wolfgang,"  she  answers,  lifting  her  face, 
dyed  in  loveliest  shame,  to  his.  "  If  I  had  known 
sooner — " 

"That  Herr  Wolfgang  was  an  impostor,  a 
sham,  a  pretender,  you  would  have  felt  toward 
him  as  he  deserved  ?  Little  Jeanne,  be  pitiful. 


256  VIVIAN   THE   BEAUTY. 

Remember  the  evening  on  the  terrace  when  you 
told  me"  (his  dark  cheek  pales)  "the  story  of 
Paul  von  Egmont's  youth  !  Remember  what 
cause  has  made  him  shrink  from  returning  under 
his  own  name  to  his  father's  house  !  " 

For  a  few  seconds  Jeanne  is  mute.  Then,  tim- 
idly, she  rests  her  hand  upon  Yon  Egmont's  arm. 

"  I  believe,  sir,  that  I  have  cared  for  you  a 
little  all  my  life."  (As  though  to  gain  courage, 
she  glances  up  at  the  friendly,  boyish  face  upon 
the  wall.)  "  And  I  know  you  will  continue  to  be 
Herr  Wolfgang,  my  master,  until  the  day  I  die." 

He  folds  her  to  his  breast  without  another 
word. 

When  they  reenter  the  ballroom  the  violins 
are  playing  ;  the  first  square  dance  of  the  evening 
has  been  formed.  Kit  Marlowe  and  Lady  Pamela 
stand  side  by  side,  best-mated  of  partners,  for  a 
Lancers,  or  for  the  somewhat  more  complicated  set 
of  figures  called  Life.  Prince  Ernest  Waldemar 
is  Beauty's  cavalier. 

Ill-starred  Beauty,  regnant,  alas  !  no  longer  ; 
loverless,  friendless,  although  she  leans  upon  the 
arm  of  a  prince  !  With  smiles  gilding  the  prac- 
ticed, painted  lip,  but  with  bitterest  disappoint- 
ment, with  the  remembrance  of  opportunities  lost, 
gifts  misused,  natural  affections  quenched  in  her 
heart.  ...  So  for  the  present  we  take  our  leave 
of  her. 

THE     END. 


UNIVEESITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBEAEY, 
BEEKELEY 


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